Mrs. Miles sprang up with a cry of rapture and surprise at the sight of them. "Why, my dears! my dears!" she said. "And wherever is the elder of you? Where do she be? Oh, then it's me is right glad to see you both!"

"We want to talk to you, Mrs. Miles," said Sylvia.

"And we want to kiss you, Mrs. Miles," said Hester.

Then they flung themselves upon her and burst into floods of most bitter weeping.

Mrs. Miles had not brought up a large family of children for nothing.

She was accustomed to childish griefs. She knew how violent, how tempestuous, such griefs might be, and yet how quickly the storms would pa.s.s, the sunshine come, and how smiles would replace tears. She treated the twins, therefore, now, just as though they were her own children.

She allowed them to cry on her breast, and murmured, "Dear, dear! Poor lambs! poor lambs! Now, this is dreadful bad, to be sure! But don't you mind how many tears you shed when you've got Mrs. Miles close to you.

Cry on, pretties, cry on, and G.o.d comfort you!"

So the children, who felt so lonely and desolate, did cry until they could cry no longer. Then Mrs. Miles immediately did the sort of thing she invariably found effectual in the case of her own children. She put the exhausted girls into a comfortable chair each by the fire, and brought them some hot milk and a slice of seed-cake, and told them they must sip the milk and eat the cake before they said any more.

Now, as a matter of fact, Sylvia and Hetty were, without knowing it in the least, in a starving condition. From the instant that Betty's serious illness was announced they had absolutely refused all food, turning from it with loathing. Supper the night before was not for them, and breakfast had remained untasted that morning. Mrs. Miles had therefore done the right thing when she provided them with a comforting and nourishing meal. They would have refused to touch the cake had one of their schoolfellows offered it, but they obeyed Mrs. Miles just as though she were their real mother.

And while they ate, and drank their hot milk, the good woman went on with her cooking operations. "I am having a fine joint to-day," she said: "corned beef that couldn't be beat in any county in England, and that's saying a good deal. It'll be on the table, with dumplings to match and a big apple-tart, sharp at one o'clock. I might ha' guessed that some o' them dear little missies were coming to dinner, for I don't always have a hot joint like this in the middle o' the week."

The girls suddenly felt that of all things in the world they would like corned beef best; that dumplings would be a delicious accompaniment; and that apple-tart, eaten with Mrs. Miles's rich cream, would go well with such a dinner. They became almost cheerful. Matters were not quite so black, and they had a sort of feeling that Mrs. Miles would certainly help them to find the lost treasure.

Having got her dinner into perfect order, and laid the table, and put everything right for the arrival of her good man, Mrs. Miles shut the kitchen door and drew her chair close to the children.

"Now you are warm," she said, "and fed, you don't look half so miserable as you did when you came in. I expect the good food nourished you up a bit. And now, whatever's the matter? And where is that darling, Miss Betty? Bless her heart! but she twined herself round us all entirely, that she did."

It would be wrong to say that Sylvia did not burst into fresh weeping at the sound of Betty's name.

But Hester was of stronger mettle. "We have come to you," she said--"Oh, Sylvia, do stop crying! it does no manner of good to cry all the time--we have come to you, Mrs. Miles, to help us to save Betty."

"Lawk-a-mercy! and whatever's wrong with the dear lamb?"

"We are going to tell you everything," said Hester. "We have quite made up our minds. Betty is very, very ill."

"Yes," said Sylvia, "she is so ill that Dr. Ashley came to see her twice yesterday, and then again a third time with a great, wonderful special doctor from London; and we were not allowed to sleep in her room last night, and she's--oh, she's dreadfully bad!

"They whispered in the school," continued Sylvia in a low tone--"I heard them; they _did_ whisper it in the school--that perhaps Betty would--would _die_. Mrs. Miles, that can't be true! G.o.d doesn't take away young, young girls like our Betty. G.o.d couldn't be so cruel."

"We won't call it cruelty," said Mrs. Miles; "but G.o.d does do it, all the same, for His own wise purposes, no doubt. We'll not talk o' that, my lambs; we'll let that pa.s.s by. The thing is for you to tell me what has gone wrong with that bonny, strong-looking girl. Why, when she was here last, although she was a bit pale, she looked downright healthy and strong enough for anything. Eh, my dear dears! you can't mention her name even now to Dan and Beersheba that they ain't took with fits o'

delight about her, dancing and scampering like half-mad dogs, and whining for her to come to them. There, to be sure! they know you belong to her, and they're lying down as contented as anything at your feet. I don't expect, somehow, your sister will die, my loves, although gels as young as she have pa.s.sed into the Better Land. Oh, dear, I'm making you cry again! It's good corned beef and dumplings you want. You mustn't give way, my dears; people who give way in times o' trouble ain't worth their salt."

"We thought perhaps you'd help us," said Sylvia.

"Help you, darlings! That I will! I'd help you to this extent--I'd help you even to the giving up o' the custom o' Haddo Court. Now, what can I do more than that?"

"Oh, but your help--the help you can give us--won't do you any harm,"

said Hester. "We'll tell you about Betty, for we know that you'll never let it out--except, indeed, to your husband. We don't mind a bit his knowing. Now, this is what has happened. You know we had great trouble--or perhaps you don't know. Anyhow, we had great trouble--away, away in beautiful Scotland. One we loved died. Before she died she left something for Betty to take care of, and Betty took what she had left her. It was only a little packet, quite small, tied up in brown paper, and sealed with a good many seals. We don't know what the packet contained; but we thought perhaps it might be money, and Betty said to us that it would be a very good thing for us to have some money to fall back upon in case we didn't like the school."

"Now, whatever for?" asked Mrs. Miles. "And who could dislike a school like Haddo Court?"

"Of course we couldn't tell," said Sylvia, "not having been there; but Betty, who is always very wise, said it was best be on the safe side, and that perhaps the packet contained money, and if it did we'd have enough to live on in case we chose to run away."

"Oh, missies, did I ever hear tell o' the like! To run away from a beautiful school like Haddo Court! Why, there's young ladies all over England trying to get into it! But you didn't know, poor lambs! Well, go on; tell me the rest."

"There was a man who was made our guardian," continued Sylvia, "and he was quite kind, and we had nothing to say against him. His name is Sir John Crawford."

"Miss f.a.n.n.y's father, bless her!" said Mrs. Miles; "and a pretty young lady she do be."

"f.a.n.n.y Crawford is our cousin," said Sylvia, "and we hate her most awfully."

"Oh, my dear young missies! but hate is a weed--a noxious weed that ought to be pulled up out o' the ground o' your hearts."

"It is taking deep root in mine," said Sylvia.

"And in mine," said Hester.

"But please let us tell you the rest, Mrs. Miles. Sir John Crawford had a letter from our dear aunt, who left the packet for Betty; and we cannot understand it, but she seemed to wish Sir John Crawford to take care of the packet for the present. He looked for it everywhere, and could not find it. Was he likely to when Betty had taken it? Then he asked Betty quite suddenly if she knew anything about it, and Betty stood up and said 'No.' She told a huge, monstrous lie, and she didn't even change color, and he believed her. So we came here. Well, Betty was terribly anxious for fear the packet should be found, and one night we helped her to climb down from the balcony out of our bedroom. No one saw her go, and no one saw her return, and she put the packet away somewhere--we don't know where. Well, after that, wonderful things happened, and Betty was made a tremendous fuss of in the school. There was no one like her, and she was loved like anything, and we were as proud as Punch of her. But all of a sudden everything changed, and our Betty was disgraced. There were horrid things written on a blackboard about her. She was quite innocent, poor darling! But the things were written, and Betty is the sort of girl to feel such disgrace frightfully. We were quite preparing to run away with her, for we thought she wouldn't care to stay much longer in the school--notwithstanding your opinion of it, Mrs. Miles. But all of a sudden Betty seemed to go right down, as though some one had felled her with an awful blow. She kept crying out, and crying out, that the packet was lost. Anyhow, she thinks it is lost; she hasn't an idea where it can be. And the doctors say that Betty's brain is in such a curious state that unless the packet is found she--she may die.

"So we went to her, both of us, and we told her we would go and find it," continued Sylvia. "We have got to find it. That is what we have come about. We don't suppose for a minute that it was right of Betty to tell the lie; but that was the only thing she did wrong. Anyhow, we don't care whether she did right or wrong; she is our Betty, the most splendid, the very dearest girl in all the world, and she sha'n't die.

We thought perhaps you would help us to find the packet."

"Well," said Mrs. Miles, "that's a wonderful story, and it's a queer sort o' job to put upon a very busy farmer's wife. _Me_ to find the packet?"

"Yes; you or your husband, whichever of you can or will do it. It is Betty's life that depends upon it. Couldn't your dogs help us? In Scotland we have dogs that scent anything. Are yours that sort?"

"They haven't been trained," said Mrs. Miles, "and that's the simple truth. Poor darlings! you must bear up as best you can. It's a very queer story, but of course the packet must be found. You stay here for the present, and I'll go out and meet my husband as he comes along to his dinner. I reckon, when all's said and done, I'm a right good wife and a right good mother, and that there ain't a farm kept better than ours anywhere in the neighborhood, nor finer fowls for the table, nor better ducks, nor more tender geese and turkeys. Then as to our pigs--why, the pigs themselves be a sight. And we rears horses, too, and very good many o' them turn out. And in the spring-time we have young lambs and young heifers; in fact, there ain't a young thing that can be born that don't seem to have a right to take up its abode at Stoke Farm.

And I does for 'em all, the small twinses being too young and the old twinses too rough and big for the sort o' work. Well, my dears, I'm good at all that sort o' thing; but when it comes to dertective business I am nowhere, and I may as well confess it. I am sorry for you, my loves; but this is a job for the farmer and not for me, for he's always down on the poachers, and very bitter he feels towards 'em. He has to be sharp and sudden and swift and knowing, whereas I have to be tender and loving and petting and true. That's the differ between us. He's more the person for this 'ere job, and I'll go and speak to him while you sit by the kitchen fire."

"Do, please, please, Mrs. Miles!" said both the twins.

Then she left them, and they sat very still in the warm, silent kitchen; and by and by Sylvia, worn out with grief, and not having slept at all during the previous night, dropped into an uneasy slumber, while Hetty stroked her sister's hand and Dan's head until she also fell asleep.

The dogs, seeing that the girls were asleep, thought that they might do the same. When, therefore, Farmer Miles and his wife entered the kitchen, it was to find the two girls and the dogs sound asleep.

"Poor little lambs! Do look at 'em!" said Mrs. Miles. "They be wore out, and no mistake."

"Let's lay 'em on the sofa along here," said Miles. "While they're having their sleep out you get the dinner up, wife, and I'll go out and put on my considering-cap."

The farmer had no sooner said this than--whispering to the dogs, who very unwillingly accompanied him--he left the kitchen. He went into the farmyard and began to pace up and down. Mrs. Miles had told her story with some skill, the farmer having kept his attention fixed on the salient points.

Miss Betty--even he had succ.u.mbed utterly to the charms of Miss Betty--had lost a packet of great value. She had hidden it, doubtless in the grounds of Haddo Court. She had gone had gone to look for it, and it was no longer there. Some one had stolen it. Who that person could be was what the farmer wanted to "get at," as he expressed it. "Until you can get at the thief," he muttered under his breath, "you are nowhere at all."

But at present he was without any clue, and, true man of business that he was, he felt altogether at a loose end. Meanwhile, as he was pacing up and down towards the farther edge of the prosperous-looking farmyard, Dan uttered a growl and sprang into the road. The next minute there was a piercing cry, and Farmer Miles, brandishing his long whip, followed the dog. Dan was holding the skirts of a very young girl and shaking them ferociously in his mouth. His eyes glared into the face of the girl, and his whole aspect was that of anger personified. Luckily, Beersheba was not present, or the girl might have had a sorry time of it. With a couple of strides the farmer advanced towards her; dealt some swift lashes with his heavy whip on the dog's head, which drove him back; then, taking the girl's small hand, he said to her kindly, "Don't you be frightened, miss; his bark's a sight worse nor his bite."

"Oh, he did terrify me so!" was the answer; "and I've been running for such a long time, and I'm very, very tired."

"Well, miss, I don't know your name nor anything about you; but this land happens to be private property--belonging to me, and to me alone.

Of course, if it weren't for that I'd have no right to have fierce dogs about ready to molest human beings. It was a lucky thing for you, miss, that I was so close by. And whatever be your name, if I may be so bold as to ask, and where be you going now?"

"My name is Sibyl Ray, and I belong to Haddo Court."