'Who was that on the stairs?' Neville asked, when the two were making their way down the street.

'Philippa--Philippa Harley,' Kathie answered.

'The little girl who cries so?' inquired Neville.

'Oh, she's rather left off crying. She's very sensible in some ways,'

said Kathleen.

'_That's_ sensible,' said Neville. 'Still I don't know that I don't like her for having cried a good deal. I like people to _mind_ things.'

He spoke quite naturally, but Kathleen was rather porcupinish on this subject. She stood quite still, and faced round upon her brother.

Fortunately the street was not at all a crowded one.

'Now, Neville,' she said, 'I'm not going to have you go on again like that about my not caring. I know it's that you mean, and I just won't have it. I care a great deal more than if I sat down and cried about it.'

Neville stared at her.

'Kathie,' he said, 'I wasn't thinking about you when I said that. I wasn't indeed. I know you do care when you really think about things.

And if you didn't, it wouldn't in a way be your fault. You've been so alone as it were; n.o.body except me, and we've not been much together after all, to talk about home things to. But don't be vexed with me, Kathie.'

Kathleen's face had softened while Neville spoke. She turned and walked on quietly beside him.

'Yes,' she said, 'it's true what you say. I've felt it still more since Philippa's been there. She's been so much with her mother, and she is so fond of her. It must be dreadfully nice to have a mother you know so well that you can love her like that. Neville,' she went on, 'it does seem hard that I should just be getting to feel more like you about it, when there's no chance of them coming home, and our being with them.'

Neville sighed.

'Yes,' he said, 'it does seem hard. All the same, Kathie, I'm very glad you're getting to feel more that way. Philippa must be a nice little girl.'

'She's a _very_ nice little girl,' said Kathie heartily. 'But she's funny--she's such a queer mixture of babyishness and old-for-her-age-ness.'

And then, as her own words recalled some of her conversation with Philippa, she suddenly exclaimed--

'Neville, are you sure, quite sure, that there's no chance of things coming right for papa?'

'What do you mean?' asked Neville in surprise.

'Do you think there's no chance of the will ever being found--or the paper telling where it is? The paper that should have been in the envelope?'

'I should think _that's_ the least likely thing of all--a little sheet of paper! A will's rather a big thing--at least, generally. Mr. Fanshaw says it's written on parchment, and that even a short will is rather a bulky thing. That's why it seems so queer it should be lost. But the bit of paper could easily have been lost. Aunt Clotilda thinks that the blank bit was put in by mistake, you know, so most likely the right bit was torn up long ago. Mrs. Wynne was getting a little blind.'

'Still,' persisted Kathleen, 'as the _will_ can't be found, _I_ think they should have a hunt for the paper. You see, if the will's rather a big thing, it's pretty sure they'd have found it unless it had been really hidden. And, besides, Mrs. Wynne's meaning to leave directions where to find it, shows it wasn't anywhere to be found easily.'

'Yes, of course,' said Neville, surprised at Kathleen's reasoning powers.

'Well then,' she went on, 'I'd look for the paper. It might be in ever so many places where the _will_ couldn't be. I wonder if they've hunted through Mrs. Wynne's desk and blotting books, and places like that?'

'I wonder too,' said Neville. 'But they'd only laugh at us if we said anything, you see, Kathie, because we're children.'

'Yes,' Kathleen agreed. 'People are very stupid about children, often.'

Neville did not answer for a moment. Then, 'Kathie,' he said half hesitatingly.

'Well.'

'I think I'll tell you something'--but he was interrupted. They had got into a crowded part by this time, and Neville had to catch hold of Kathleen and make a sudden rush for it, to avoid being knocked down by an unexpected hansom appearing round a corner which they had not been observing. 'There now,' Neville went on, 'it would have been very nice if I had got you run over, Kathie. We mustn't talk where it's so crowded. Wait till we get into Mayhew Street.'

But when they reached Mayhew Street, at the farther end of which was Neville's present home, they were overtaken by Mr. Fanshaw himself. So there was no more opportunity for talking privately. And kind Mrs.

Fanshaw had arranged a sight-seeing expedition in the afternoon for the two Powys children and two of the other boys. From this they did not get home till tea-time, and after tea there were games in the schoolroom, and then music in the drawing-room when Mr. and Mrs. Fanshaw and the elder boys came up from dinner. It was all very delightful, and Kathleen enjoyed it thoroughly. But it drove other thoughts out of her head, and gave her endless subject for chatter in the hansom on her way home. It was not till they drew up at Miss Eccles' gate that she suddenly remembered Neville's unfinished sentence.

'What was it you were going to say to me just when that cab came up, this morning?' she asked.

Neville hesitated.

'I'll tell you the next time. It would take too long now. Perhaps it will never come to anything; perhaps you wouldn't like it if it did, and perhaps you'd be disappointed if it didn't. And it's best to say no more about it yet.'

And this oracular reply was all Kathie could extract from Neville before they had to bid each other good-night.

Philippa was a good deal disappointed the next day that Kathleen had no more to tell her.

'You promised to speak to your brother about looking for the paper,' she said.

'Well, so I did,' said Kathie.

'Yes; but what you said was no good. You should have planned with him about going there. It'll be too late soon; once your aunt has left the house you'd never have a chance of going there.'

'Oh, bother!' said Kathleen; 'I've no chance as it is. I don't believe it'll ever be found--the paper or the will either. It's no good thinking any more about it.'

Philippa's face flushed.

'I think you're a very silly girl, and a very selfish one too,' she said. 'I'm sure if there was the least little tiniest bit of a chance of my finding any paper that would do _my_ papa and mamma any good, I'd--I'd--'

'What would you do, Miss Unselfish?' said Kathie teasingly.

'I'd run away and dress myself like a little servant so as to get into the house, or--or--anything,' said Philippa.

'And get put into prison for poking about among other people's things.

That would be _very_ nice for papa and mamma! Your head's far too full of fanciful stories and rubbish!' said Kathleen.

And for some days there was a decided coolness between the friends.

But on the fourth day something happened which quickly set this unusual state of things to rights. A rather thick letter arrived for 'Miss Powys' by the morning post. It was addressed in Neville's clear, boyish handwriting; and as this was at once recognised by Miss Eccles, she gave it to Kathleen without any remark or inquiry. And though there was only a quarter of an hour between breakfast and morning lessons beginning, Kathie managed to gain a pretty fair idea of its contents before taking her place in the schoolroom. But it was not till the after-dinner play-time in the garden that she was able to tell what the letter contained to her little confidante. All she had time to whisper to her--for it was a very busy morning--was, 'I _have_ got something to tell you, Phil, so you're not to look cross at me any more. You will open your eyes when you hear it.'

Philippa opened her eyes wide enough only to know she was _going_ to hear it! What could it be? Kathie looked so pleased and excited that Philippa almost fancied news must have come of the will having been found. Of course it would be very nice, she said to herself, _very_ nice, if it were so; but still she was conscious of a little feeling of disappointment at the idea. She was rather what is called a romantic little girl; she liked to make up wonderful stories in her head; but this was the first time that she had ever come across in actual life anything to make a really good one about, so, naturally, she felt that it would be quite a pity for it to come to an end too soon. It would be like a book finishing up all in a hurry in the middle. She thought so much about it that she was very sharply reproved by Miss Fraser for inattention and carelessness, which forced her out of her dreams, though the pleasant feeling of having something out of the common to look forward to prevented her taking the scolding much to heart.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE AFTER-DINNER PLAY-TIME IN THE GARDEN.]

And at last--at last, though really it did seem as if the morning would never come to an end--the two friends found themselves together in the arbour again, and Kathleen drew the fat-looking letter out of her pocket.