"I don't! I am glad that you know, now that the scolding is over," said Mildred frankly. "I am not sure that I could have screwed up courage to tell you myself, but I feel much more comfortable now that you do know.

I've never done anything else like that; I truly haven't."

Lady Sarah smiled, and laid her hand caressingly on the golden head.

"I believe you, my dear. I am quite sure you have not, if you say so.

You are a bright, hopeful, young creature, Mildred. My heart goes out towards you. Will you help an old woman to get the better of her fretful temper?"

Mildred lifted her face, the grey eyes large and solemn.

"If you help me, too," she said. "Let us help each other!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A HAPPY ENDING.

The Dean and Mrs Faucit duly presented Mildred with a gold watch to match those already possessed by their own daughters. It had a monogram on the back, an inscription inside the cover, and was altogether the most delightful specimen of its kind that could be imagined.

Mildred developed an absorbing curiosity to know how time was pa.s.sing during the next few days, which compelled her to pull out the watch every two or three minutes, while the intervals were agreeably spent in playing with the pretty little chain to which it was attached. She wrote enthusiastic letters to her mother and Miss Margaret, describing her new possession and giving a dramatic description of the events which had led to its presentation; but the answers which she received were distinctly disappointing, for Mrs Moore could only send a verbal message, while Mardie treated her news in aggravatingly lukewarm manner.

Mildred realised with chagrin that her thrilling description had failed to arouse anything like the interest which she expected. Even the congratulations which followed were wanting in fervour, as though the presentation of a watch and chain were an everyday occurrence.

"_And now, dear, I have something interesting to tell you_," the letter went on, when the subject of Mildred's own adventures had been dismissed in a few cursory sentences; and as she read the words, the girl tossed her head with a gesture of impatience.

"Interesting indeed! What does she call _my_ news?--A robbery,--a capture,--a quarrel,--a reconciliation,--a watch and chain! She has nothing half so interesting to tell me, I am sure." Mildred changed her mind, however, before she finished reading Miss Margaret's letter.

And now, dear, I have something interesting to tell you. You remember the story about my friend, the planter in Ceylon, whose crop of cinchona died down so disastrously? I told it to you the night when you were so distressed about not being able to go home for the holidays. You said at the time that this disappointment was different to yours, because it had not affected my own personal happiness; but you were wrong, Mildred dear, for if that crop had been a success, instead of a failure, I should have been the planter's wife long ago, and you would not have had "Mardie" at Milvern House! Years have pa.s.sed since then, but now things look brighter, though there is no prospect of a second fortune, and I am going to live in Ceylon, Mildred, in the very bungalow of which we spoke together.

I am afraid you will not find me at school when you return after the holidays, for we are going to be married very soon; but Mr Lytton will be in England for six months to come, and that wonderful person, his future wife, will, I feel sure, pay many visits to Milvern House, to see the dear girls whose affection has been a comfort to her during the days of her loneliness. Are you very much surprised, Mildred?

You must write and tell me what you think of my great news, and tell Bertha and Lois to write too. By the way, Mr Lytton brought a friend to call upon me the other day, a Mr Muir, who is a neighbour in Ceylon. He told me that he had met you at a picnic the other day, and intrusted me with a message which I was to give the next time I wrote: "Give Miss Mildred my love, and tell her that I am quite of her opinion." What did he mean, dear? I am curious.

Mildred gave a loud shriek of excitement when she came to that thrilling word "wife", the effect of which was to bring Bertha and Lois flying to peer over her shoulder. Together the three girls read the letter, together they gasped, and groaned, and exclaimed, together they burst into a chorus of lamentation when the end was reached.

"School without Mardie!"

"Lessons without Mardie!"

"Milvern House without Mardie! Oh, oh, oh! how shall we bear it?"

"I hate Mr Lytton!" cried Mildred vindictively, then repenting; "at least, I don't exactly mean that. It is only natural that he should want Mardie if he can get her; but I call him selfish. What are _we_ to do, I should like to know?"

"Perhaps he would think we were selfish to want to keep her to ourselves," said Bertha pensively. "I am glad that Mardie is going to be happy, but I can't imagine school without her. Who will welcome the new girls, and comfort them when they are homesick? Who will take us out on half-holidays, and read aloud in the evening? Who will nurse us when we are ill?"

"Who will have her room when she is gone? I can't think how she can find it in her heart to leave that sweet little room!" cried Lois, in her turn. "But she must be anxious to go, I suppose, or she would not have promised to marry him."

"I wouldn't like to live in a country where you met snakes when you went out for afternoon strolls; but I think Indian people are nice," declared Mildred. "That Mr Muir had such a nice, sunburnt face, and such kind, twinkling eyes! If Mardie's husband is like that, I'll forgive him for taking her away. But I'll work like a slave, so as to be able to leave school as soon as possible. 'Mrs Lytton!' Gracious! We shall have to give her a present. I wish the wedding were not quite so soon, for I have only two and twopence in the world. Perhaps we could join together."

"I think it would be a good thing if the whole school joined, and gave her something really handsome--a dressing-bag, for instance."

"Oh, not a dressing-bag. She would use that on the voyage, and perhaps not again for two or three years. We ought to choose something that she would need every day. A clock would be nice," and Mildred jingled her watch-chain with an air of proud possession.

"I think a ring would be better than either," said Lois; and the discussion went on with unabated energy for the next half-hour, when it was abandoned to allow the disputants to write letters of hearty, though somewhat lugubrious, congratulation, to the bride-elect.

Mildred had no sooner finished her letter than she ran upstairs to spend half an hour with Lady Sarah in her bedroom. The compact of friendship which had been made a few days earlier had been kept all the more faithfully on the girl's part because the old lady had been suffering from the effect of shock and excitement, and had been confined to bed for several days. Mary the housemaid was deputed to act as maid in the place of the unhappy Cecile, but half a dozen times a day Mildred would go into the room to rearrange the pillows, and enliven the invalid with her bright, sunshiny presence. Lady Sarah always welcomed her with a smile, and never allowed her to depart without the earnest "Come back soon!" which sounded sweetly in the girl's ear. She was growing really fond of the old lady, and adopted little airs of authority in the sick-room which amused and fascinated the onlookers.

On the present occasion she despatched Mary downstairs to tea, and seated herself on the end of the bed, with her hair falling in showers over her shoulders, and her hands clasped round her knees. A fortnight ago Lady Sarah would have exclaimed at the inelegance of the position, but to-day her gaze rested upon the girlish figure as if the sight were pleasant in her eyes. She herself looked thin and shaken, but the kindly expression transformed her face, and the soft, white hair was much more becoming than the elaborate wig which she was in the habit of wearing. Mildred felt very strongly on this point, and did not hesitate to put her thoughts into words.

"If you are going to be _my_ old lady I shall insist upon burning that ugly, brown wig!" she said this afternoon. "I love old ladies with white hair, and yours is prettier than any imitation. When you get up I am going to arrange it for you over a cushion in front, and with a pretty piece of lace falling over the back. I don't think the brown hair suits you a bit, and it looks so frizzled up and artificial. You don't mind my saying so--do you?" she concluded in an artless manner which made Lady Sarah smile in spite of herself.

"No, my dear, no! Whatever please you. It is a long time since anyone took an interest in my appearance. But it will be awkward. People will make remarks--"

"What will that matter, when they will only say that you look twice as nice? Of course everyone knew quite well that it was a wig," said Mildred, with an unconscious cruelty at which Lady Sarah winced. When the latter spoke again, however, it was to make a request which showed that she cherished no resentment.

"I have been wondering, Mildred, if you would spend the remainder of your holidays with me in Scotland. The Faucits leave for Switzerland next week, Miss Chilton will be busy preparing for the wedding of which you have just told me, and your mother's house will be closed for three weeks to come. I have taken rooms in an hotel at Pitlochry, and I should like very much to have you with me. It is a lovely spot, and there will be other young people in the house. You would not be dependent upon me for society. Do you think you could make up your mind to come?"

"I should have to ask Mother first, but if she said yes, I could--quite easily," returned Mildred. She clasped her fingers more tightly together and sat pondering over this latest extraordinary development of affairs--that Lady Sarah should invite her, of all people in the world, to pay her a visit, and that she should be willing to accept such an invitation. If anyone had prophesied as much a fortnight before, how she would have scoffed and jeered, and what sheets of explanation it would take to convince the dear little mother that Lady Sarah was not the ogress which she had been represented, and that she might be trusted to treat her guest with kindness!

"What are you thinking of, Mildred?" asked Lady Sarah, watching the changes in the girl's expression with curious eyes, and Mildred answered with her usual frankness.

"I was thinking how strange it was that we should be such good friends, when we used to dislike each other so much! You were cross to me,--I was rude to you, and we were always disagreeing! I think I annoyed you the very first night I arrived. You seemed vexed because I was late."

"I never disliked you, child. If I seemed to do so, it was because I have grown into the unfortunate habit of fault-finding. On the contrary there is something about you which has always attracted me. I don't know what it is--something in your voice, your laugh, your movements, which brings back memories of my youth. What a long, long way off it seems!--like another life,--and of all that large family of boys and girls there is not one left alive but myself! I am a lonely old woman, Mildred!"

"But there is no need that you should be! There are so many people in the world who need a friend, and you are rich--you can do kind things every day in the year! I have often thought how nice it would be to be a dear old lady with curls, and a beautiful big house, and lots of money. It is one of my castles in the air. I would be a sort of fairy G.o.dmother to poor people; help struggling young geniuses, pretty girls who had to work for their living, and old women in dingy lodgings. If I had no people of my own, I would go outside to find them, for I couldn't live alone, with no one to love me, and nothing to think of but myself!

I couldn't do it!"

Mildred looked at Lady Sarah with wistful eyes, as if demanding sympathy for the very thought. She did not know that older people than herself had long been struggling for courage to impress these views of life upon her companion, and was guiltless of pointing a moral. Lady Sarah listened, however, and pondered on her words without being in the least offended. She was never offended at anything that Mildred said or did in these latter days; she seemed to have opened her heart to the girl with an unreserved affection which made Mrs Faucit very hopeful of the future.

She said as much in the letter to Mrs Moore which accompanied Lady Sarah's invitation.

I hope very much that you will allow Mildred to accept Lady Sarah's invitation, _she wrote_, for I believe the friendship which has grown up between them will be of mutual benefit. Lady Sarah has an unfortunate manner, but I have always believed in her warmth of heart, and she has fallen deeply in love with your dear, bright girl. They were not at all good friends at first, as you will doubtless have heard, but circ.u.mstances have drawn them together, and I can see that each is already beginning to exercise a beneficial influence over the character of the other. Mildred's sunshiny influence is smoothing the wrinkles from the poor old lady's face, and the knowledge that one so old and frail relies upon her for comfort, will, I am sure, overcome the temptation to hastiness which she is ever bemoaning. I don't wonder at Lady Sarah's infatuation, for we are all in love with the dear child. She has been the life of our quiet house. I hope we may see much of her in the future.

Mrs Moore received this letter, and the invitation which accompanied it, one hot afternoon as she sat in the fever room with her patient.

Robbie was an invalid no longer, except in name--he was up and clothed and in his right mind; able to amuse himself by painting frescoes on the wall, and to scrub his obstinate little heels with pumice stone, after the morning and evening baths. Mrs Moore read her letters through once, twice, and yet again; then she laid them down upon the table, took her handkerchief from her pocket, and very quietly and deliberately began to cry.

She was a merry little mother as a rule, in spite of her anxieties, and had played the mountebank for Robbie's benefit with such success during the last few weeks, that he was aghast at the sudden change of mood.

He gave a roar like a wounded bull, and rushing forward, burrowed his head on her knee.

"Don't ky! don't ky!" he cried, "I'll never do it again! never do it again!" for conscience p.r.i.c.ked concerning a dozen mischievous freaks, and he was convinced that it was his own wickedness which had brought about this outburst of distress.

His mother seized him by the arm and stared into his face with eager eyes. She was the prettiest little mother in the world, and Mildred did well to be proud of her.

"Robbie!" she cried excitedly, "am I a good mother? Have I been kind to you? Do you love me with all your heart?"

Robbie pranced about in an agony of emotion.

"Boo--hoo--hoo! Yes, I does! Boo--hoo--"