"No use to them when they get it," said Meg. "They're always in a muddle."

Mr. Standish once more repressed an inclination to laugh at the child's precocious wisdom. He admitted there was truth in what she said. Once, three years ago, just before coming here, he had given all he had to a friend, and it had been of no use.

"Did you lend him much money?" asked Meg.

"Yes; he was in the greatest distress. I loved him, Meg. I would do it again if he came to me. If he was reckless, he was so handsome and so jolly. He came and told me all about his trouble. His father was very stern; he would not see him or help him. My friend wanted three hundred pounds. It was all the money that I had."

"And you gave it?" she said, and stopped.

He nodded.

"Did he never pay you back?" she faltered.

"Never, Meg. It is a sad story. There was some disgrace, and he died."

She did not speak; the fate of the stranger seemed to affect her but little.

"You gave him all your money?" she repeated, and again she paused; then she put out her hand and stroked his head, with a look of tender and ineffable admiration.

CHAPTER IV.

FAREWELL.

There followed a time of perfect happiness for Meg, during which, for a few weeks, she sat by her friend's fireside, watched him at his writing, listened to his reading, ruled over the meals that he took at home, and questioned him concerning those that he took abroad.

On a memorable afternoon they celebrated together, with much pomp, over a banquet of jam puffs and lemonade at a confectioner's shop in the Tottenham Court Road, the redemption from p.a.w.n of his father's gold watch and chain. Meg again played the part of _Deus ex machina_ in the transaction, and personally paid the ransom of the precious pledge. In honor of the event, Mr. Standish presented her with a copy of Goldsmith's "Animated Nature," with "Meg" printed in gold letters on the cover. The sight of her name thus honored overcame the child. He explained to her, when she appeared inclined to rebuke him for extravagance that the political squib, the jokes which used to have a depressing effect upon her, had brought him the unlooked-for cash.

Shortly after this festivity Mr. Standish's movements once more became erratic. Meg could discover no signs, however, of the symptoms that she feared. He seemed mysteriously elated and full of business, yet he wrote less. He admitted when she questioned him that something was absorbing his time, but his answers were evasive concerning the nature of this new interest. He promised that she would know what it was shortly.

One day Mr. Standish had a long talk with Mrs. Browne over a bottle of sherry, after which he went out and returned late. The landlady was maudlinly effusive over Meg that evening, puzzled the child with her ramblingly affectionate talk, and filled her with vague apprehension.

Mr. Standish's answers to Meg's queries were also unsatisfactory.

A few days later a dandified elderly gentleman wearing a frilled shirt visited the journalist. As he was leaving Mr. Standish called Meg in, and introduced her to the visitor as "the child I spoke to you about."

The elderly gentleman looked at her peeringly, with his head on one side. He chuckled, patted her cheek, and told her if she were a good girl something wonderful might happen to her. The announcement, far from cheering Meg, deepened the foreboding in her heart.

That evening she softly entered Mr. Standish's room. A confused dread seized her when she saw the floor littered with books and papers lying about in parcels. The journalist was sitting by the fire, abstractedly poking the embers.

Meg touched his elbow. "Are you not going to write to-night?" she asked in a low voice.

"Not to-night, Meg. I am going to talk to you instead."

She remained motionless by his chair, questioning him with her glance only.

Still he did not speak. After a moment or two he said abruptly, "Meg would you like to go to school?"

"I go to school every day. What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him with quick suspicion.

"I mean quite another sort of school--one kept by ladies, and where your schoolfellows would be ladies; where you would make lots of nice friends; and where you will sleep at night instead of----"

"You mean go away from here--quite?" interrupted Meg, growing pale to the lips.

"Yes," he answered.

"What do you want me to go away for?" she demanded, a flash of anger in her eyes.

"Because I do not like to leave you with no one but Mrs. Browne to look after you; and I am going away."

"When?" she asked tremulously.

"To-morrow."

She gave an exclamation that sounded like a cry.

He drew her to him.

"Listen, Meg. It will make me very unhappy if I think you are fretting when I am gone. I want my little friend to be brave; she must not fret."

"Where are you going?" she faltered, mastering her emotion.

"I am going to travel and write accounts of what I see, for a newspaper that will pay me very well. It is a great lift for me, Meg, and I want you to have your lift also."

She did not speak, but kept her eyes fixed upon his face. He then gently and guardedly told her that he had got from Mrs. Browne the name of the family solicitor who paid for her keep. He had gone to see him to speak of Meg. The elderly gentleman with the frilled shirt, who had patted her on the head, was the solicitor in question. His name was Mr. Fullbloom.

The young man did not tell the child that he had found out how shamefully misapplied by the landlady was the allowance she received, nor did he tell her that he had made in writing a vivid statement of her forlorn and neglected condition in the boarding-house.

He laid as light stress as he could on the refusal of the solicitor to give up the name of the child's mysterious patron.

"Some one takes a great interest in you, Meg," he said in conclusion; "and Mr. Fullbloom came to a.s.sure me from that person that you would now be placed in a first-rate school, where you will have plenty of comrades of your own age, teachers who will care for you; and you will grow up to be a little lady, like your mother in the picture."

Meg listened cold and silent to the end.

"Won't you be glad to go to school to be educated?"

"No," she answered, stiffening herself and jerking out her words, relapsing in her excitement into her old p.r.o.nunciation. "I will hate going. I don't want to be edicated. What do I want to be edicated for?

And if you cared for me you would not wish me to go away, you would not."

Tears stood in her eyes, but anger kept them from falling.

"Do you wish to remain here when I am gone Meg?" he asked.

"No," she replied faintly, as if her heart failed her at the suggestion.

"Why can't I go where you go? Who'll light your fire for you, who'll look after you? You want somebody to look after you."

"I know it, Meg, and no one would look after me as you would."

"I'd not want much to eat or drink," Meg went on, alive to the economical side of the question; "and once you said you felt lonely without me."