Dorothy was not very gracious, and as Irene tugged at the sleeves of the ulster, a lock of the silky hair caught in a b.u.t.ton, and Dorothy screamed--

"Oh, don't! you hurt me. Oh, Jingle!"

Ingleby came running in at the cry of distress, and began to pity and console.

"I am very sorry," Irene said, moving away to the window, where, through the gathering haze of tears, she saw the gas-lights beginning to start out all round the square below.

A sense of desolation oppressed her; and she wished--oh, how she wished she had stayed at Mrs. Baker's! At first it had seemed delightful to go to grannie, but now she thought anything was better than being where she was not wanted. She was roused by Ingleby's voice--

"You are to have tea in the sitting-room with Mrs. Acheson. The Canon is gone out to dine at St. Paul's Deanery; and as soon as you have had your tea, you are to go to bed."

Dorothy, shaking back her beautiful hair, ran away to a room at the end of the pa.s.sage, never thinking of Irene, who followed her with the same uneasy sense of "not being wanted" which is hard for us all to bear.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Bay Window]

CHAPTER IV.

NINO.

Mrs. Acheson roused herself to talk to the little girls, and was kindly anxious that Irene should not feel strange and unhappy. But Irene was not a child to respond quickly, and Mrs. Acheson could but contrast her with her own little Dorothy, who was so caressing and tender in her ways, and had a gentle voice, while Irene had a quick, decided way of speaking.

"Have you been unwell long, my dear?" Mrs. Acheson asked.

"I have had a cough, and--and father does not wish me to keep a cough, because of mother."

"You don't remember your mother?"

"No. I have a stepmother, you know, and two little brothers."

"You will like being with your grandmamma and your cousins at San Remo.

Your grandmamma is such a dear old lady. Do you know, the thought of being near her reconciled me to spending the winter abroad."

Irene's face brightened at this.

"I am glad you know grannie," she said. "Your cough is very bad, I am afraid," Irene continued, as Mrs. Acheson was interrupted by a fit of coughing.

"Mother's cough is much better," Dorothy said, hotly. "Jingle says so, and _she_ knows better than _you_ do."

Irene made no reply to this, and soon after Ingleby came to put them both to bed.

Irene had been too much accustomed to changes to be much affected by this change, and as soon as her head touched the pillow, she was asleep.

But Dorothy tossed and fidgeted, and besought Ingleby not to leave her, and persisted in holding her hand in hers, though her nurse sorely wanted rest herself, and to get all things forward for the early start the next morning.

At last Ingleby disengaged her hand from Dorothy's clinging clasp, and went downstairs to cater for some supper. But her disappearance soon roused Dorothy; she began to cry and call, "Jingle! Jingle!" This woke Irene, who jumped out of her own bed in the next room, and coming to her, said, "What do you want?"

"I don't want _you_," was the somewhat ungracious reply. "I want Jingle or mother."

"Are you ill? have you a pain anywhere?" asked practical Irene.

"No, but I want Jingle. Oh dear, dear!"

"If nothing is the matter, I think you ought to go to sleep, and not cry; it may frighten your mamma."

"It is so horrid here," said poor little Dorothy; "and I wonder how Puff and m.u.f.f are; and I want Nino. Why did Jingle take him away? Oh dear, dear! and there's such a buzzing noise in the street, and rumble, rumble; oh dear!"

"Do you ever try saying hymns to get yourself to sleep?" Irene asked.

"If you like I'll repeat one, and then you can say it over when I get back to my own bed."

Dorothy turned her face away on the pillow, and was not very encouraging; but Irene repeated this beautiful evening hymn for a child, which I hope all the little girls and boys who read my story know with their hearts as well as their heads:--

"On the dark hill's western side, The last purple gleam has died; Twilight to one solemn hue Changes all, both green and blue.

"In the fold, and in the nest, Birds and lambs have gone to rest; Labour's weary task is o'er, Closely shut the cottage door.

"Saviour, ere in sweet repose I my weary eyelids close, While my mother through the gloom Singeth from the outer room,

"While across the curtain white, With a dim uncertain light, On the floor the faint stars shine, Let my latest thought be Thine.

"'Twas a starry night of old When rejoicing angels told The poor shepherds of Thy birth, G.o.d became a Child on earth.

"Soft and quiet is the bed Where I lay my little head; Thou hadst but a manger bare, Rugged straw for pillow fair.

"Saviour, 'twas to win me grace Thou didst stoop to this poor place, Loving with a perfect love Child and man and G.o.d above.

"Thou wast meek and undefiled: Make me gentle, too, and mild; Thou didst foil the tempter's power: Help me in temptation's hour.

"Thou didst love Thy mother here, Make me gentle, kind, and dear; Thou didst mind her slightest word, Teach me to obey, O Lord.

"Happy now, I turn to sleep; Thou wilt watch around me keep; Him no danger e'er can harm Who lies cradled in Thy arm."

When Ingleby came up, she found Dorothy sound asleep, and her arm round Irene's neck. Both children were in profound slumber. Ingleby gently lifted Irene and carried her back to her own room, Dorothy murmuring as she turned round on her pillow, "Away with the swallows, off to the sunny South."

They were off in good earnest the next morning--a bright and beautiful morning. The sea was blue, and the sky clear; only a brisk wind chased the waves sh.o.r.eward, and gave just that motion which to good sailors is so delightful.

There were, of course, some unhappy people who could not bear even that gentle motion, and had to take flight to the cabin. Poor Ingleby was one of these, and in spite of all her brave attempts to keep up, she was obliged to leave the children to Canon Percival's care, and retreat with her mistress to the lower regions.

Dorothy and Irene sat together on the middle seat of the deck, with their faces to the dancing waves, over which some white birds were darting, who had their nests in the face of the cliffs of Dover. It had all the delightful sense of novelty to Dorothy, but Irene was already a traveller. In a dim, dreamy way she was thinking of her voyage home, four years before; she remembered the pain of parting with the dark-skinned ayah, and her father's sad face, as they drew near England.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "OH, WHAT A CROSS LITTLE DOGGIE!"]

Those white cliffs brought it all back to her, and she recalled how her father said,--

"England was your dear mother's home, and she loved it, but she is in a better home now; I must not wish her back again."