"Come, come, young ladies; no whispering, if you please," said Miss Good, who came up at this moment. "Susan, you are looking pale and cold, walk up and down that path half-a-dozen times, and then go into the house.

Phyllis and Nora, you can come with me as far as the lodge. I want to take a message from Mrs. Willis to Mary Martin about the fowl for to-morrow's dinner."

Phyllis and Nora, with dismayed faces, walked solemnly away with the English teacher, and Susan was left to her solitary meditations.

Things had come to such a pa.s.s that her slow wits were brought into play, and she neither felt sleepy, nor did she indulge in her usual habit of eating lollipops.

That basket might be discovered any day, and then--then disgrace was imminent. Susan could not make out what had become of old Betty; never before had she so utterly failed them.

Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House.

She was a st.u.r.dy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a day added to her income--indeed, almost supported herself--by means of the girls at Lavender House. The large cherry-trees in her little garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs. Willis' girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and tarts. There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which Betty used to come.

Here on the gra.s.s she would sit contentedly, with the contents of her baskets arranged in the most tempting order before her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little misses who loved goodies, cakes and tartlets would be sure to find their way. Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the matter of credit, the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid double the shop prices for Betty's cakes. The best girls in the school, certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and several others had regular accounts with her, and few days pa.s.sed that their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask:

"What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?"

It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the old attic, etc., etc., that Betty was truly great. No one so clever as she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better what schoolgirls liked. She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand secret feast.

"You shall have it, my pretties--you shall have it," she would say, wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly. "You leave it to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty."

On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies' field Betty had, indeed, surpa.s.sed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under the thick laurel. It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an early hour on the following morning.

No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm herself. It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little cold.

Susan remembered now that Betty had not come to her favorite station at the stile for several days. Was it possible that the old woman was ill?

As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed. She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long in concealment.

Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush. Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up the back avenue. Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place. A sudden idea came to her; she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return to the house for another half-hour. "Suppose she ran as fast as possible to Betty's little cottage and begged of the old woman to come by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?"

The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into execution. She looked around her hastily: no teacher was in sight, Miss Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little children. Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache.

She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty's paling. In a moment she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty's cottage. She reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage with some ladies and gentlemen pa.s.sed her. She thought she recognized the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be mistaken.

In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty's little cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door. The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground. Susan knocked impatiently.

There was no discernible answer. She had no time to wait, she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in.

Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying on her little bed.

"Eh, dear--and is that you, my pretty missy?" she asked, as Susan, hot and tired, came up to her side.

"Oh, Betty, are you ill?" asked Miss Drummond "I came to tell you you have forgotten the basket."

"No, my dear, no--not forgot. By no means that, lovey; but I has been took with the rheumatism this past week, and can't move hand or foot. I was wondering how you'd do without your cakes and tartlets, dear, and to think of them cherries lying there good for nothing on the ground is enough to break one's 'eart."

"So it is," said Susan, giving an appreciative glance toward the open door. "They are beautiful cherries, and full of juice, I am sure. I'll take a few, Betty, as I am going out, and pay you for them another day.

But what I have come about now is the basket. You must get the basket away, however ill you are. If the basket is discovered we are all lost, and then good-by to your gains."

"Well, missy, dear, if I could crawl on my hands and knees I'd go and fetch it, rather than you should be worried; but I can't set foot to the ground at all. The doctor says as 'tis somethink like rheumatic fever as I has."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Susan, not wasting any of her precious moments in pitying the poor suffering old woman. "What _is_ to be done? I tell you, Betty, if that basket is found we are all lost."

"But the laurel is very thick, lovey: it ain't likely to be found--it ain't, indeed."

"I tell you it _is_ likely to be found, you tiresome old woman, and you really must go for it or send for it. You really must."

Old Betty began to ponder.

"There's Moses," she said, after a pause of anxious thought; "he's a 'cute little chap, and he might go. He lives in the fourth cottage along the lane. Moses is his name--Moses Moore. I'd give him a pint of cherries for the job. If you wouldn't mind sending Moses to me, Miss Susan, why, I'll do my best; only it seems a pity to let anybody into your secrets, young ladies, but old Betty herself."

"It is a pity," said Susan, "but, under the circ.u.mstances, it can't be helped. What cottage did you say this Moses lived in?"

"The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey--Moses is the lad's name; he's a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye. You send him up to me, dearie; but don't mention the cherries, or he'll be after stealing them.

He's a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the cherries."

Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty "good-bye," but ran out of the cottage, shutting the door after her, and s.n.a.t.c.hing up two or three ripe cherries to eat on her way. She was so far fortunate as to find the redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty's presence. The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at four o'clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from under the laurel-tree.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

"YOU ARE WELCOME TO TELL."

Annie continued her walk. The circ.u.mstances of the last two months had combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected. When a little child she had known hardship and privation, she had pa.s.sed through that experience which is metaphorically spoken of as "going down hill." As a baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone. These were in the days before she could remember anything. With her first early memories came the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her mother often in tears, and her father often away. Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character--and Annie's nurse went away, and she took her daily walks by her mother's side and slept in a little cot in her mother's room. Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of mother. Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a good deal as she worked. Then there was another move, and this time Mrs.

Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy, and food even was scarce. At last there was a change. One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all on a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again. This lady brought comforts with her--toys and books for the child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother. At last Annie's mother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother's dying hours easy.

"Annie, Annie," said the dying mother, "I owe everything to Mrs. Willis; we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me now and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you.

Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?"

"Yes, mother," said little Annie, gazing full into her mother's face with her sweet bright eyes, "I'll--I'll love her, mother; I'll give her lots and lots of love."

Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost worshiped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her short existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was an affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was as impossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a flower to keep its head determinately turned from the sun. In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character.

Her mother died--her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs. Willis loved her--she bestowed upon her among all her girls the tenderest glances, the most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst sc.r.a.pes made them smile. Annie's companions adored her; the little children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to hold a candle to Miss Forest.

During the last half-year, however, things had been different. Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was no longer a universal favorite--some of the girls even openly expressed their dislike of her.

All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs. Willis joined in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to her eyes, nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie's spirits utterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally.

She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering vaguely, if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of more or less indifference to everything and every one, when she was suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a very eager little exclamation:

"Me tumming--me tumming, Annie!" and then Nan raised her charming face and placed her cool baby hand in Annie's.

There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face.

"Me yiding from naughty nurse--me 'tay with you, Annie--me love 'oo, Annie."

Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms.

"Why ky?" said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie's eyes; "dere, poor ickle Annie--me love 'oo--me buy 'oo a new doll."

"Dearest little darling," said Annie in a voice of almost pa.s.sionate pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. "Come, Nan,"