I seemed to have no feeling now except the longing to be 'at home' and with Kezia. I almost forgot why I had come and all about my unhappiness in London; but, oh dear! how that mile stretched itself out! It was all uphill too; every now and then I was forced to stop for a minute and to put down my packages on the ground so as to rest my aching arms, so my progress was very slow. It was quite dark when at last I found myself stumbling up the bit of steep path which lay between the end of the road where Sharley's pony-cart used to wait and our own little garden-gate.

If I hadn't known my way so well I could scarcely have found it, but at last my goal was reached. I stood at the door for a moment or two without knocking, to recover my breath, and indeed my wits, a little. It all seemed so strange, I felt as if I were dreaming. But soon the fresh sweet air, which was almost like native air to me, made me feel more like myself--made me realise that here I was again at dear old Windy Gap. More than that, I would not let my mind dwell upon, except to think over what should be my first words to Kezia.

I knocked at last, and then for the first time I noticed that there was a light in the drawing-room shining through the blinds.

'Dear me,' I thought, 'how strange,' and then a terror came over me--supposing the house was let to strangers! I had quite forgotten that this was possible.

But before I had time to think of what I could in that case do, the door was opened.

'Kezia,' I gasped, but looking up, my new fears took shape.

It was not Kezia who stood there, it was a boy; a boy about two or three years older than I, not as tall as Gerard Nestor, though strong and st.u.r.dy looking, and with--even at that moment I thought so to myself--the very nicest face I had ever seen. He was sunburnt and ruddy, with short dark hair and bright kind-looking eyes, which when he smiled seemed to smile too. I daresay I did not see all that just then, but it is difficult now to separate my earliest remembrance of him from what I noticed afterwards, and there never was, there never has been, anything to contradict or confuse the first feeling, or instinct, that he was as good and true as he looked, my dear old Harry!

Just now, of course, his face had a very surprised expression.

'Kezia?' he repeated. 'I am sorry she is not in just now.'

It was an immense relief to gather from his words that she was not away.

'Will she be in soon?' I said, eagerly; 'I didn't know there was any one else in the house. May I--do you mind--if I come in and wait till Kezia returns?'

'Certainly,' said the boy, and as he spoke he stooped to pick up the bag and parcel which his quick eyes had caught sight of. 'My brother and I are staying here,' he said, as he crossed the little hall to the drawing-room door. 'We are alone here except for Kezia; we came here a fortnight ago from school, it was broken up because of illness.'

I think he went on speaking out of a sort of friendly wish to set me at my ease, and I listened half stupidly, I don't think I quite took in what he said. A younger boy was sitting in my own old corner, by the window, and a little table with a lamp on it was drawn up beside him.

'Lindsay,' said my guide, and the younger boy, who was evidently very well drilled by his brother, started up at once. 'This--this young lady,' for by this time he had found out I was a lady in spite of my brown paper parcel, 'has come to see Kezia. Put some coal on the fire, it's getting very low.'

Lindsay obeyed, eyeing me as he did so. He was smaller and slighter than his brother, with fair hair and a rather girlish face.

'Won't you sit down?' said Harry, pushing a chair forward to me.

I was dreadfully tired and very glad to sit down, and now my brain began to work a little more quickly. The name 'Lindsay' had started some recollection.

'Are you--' I began, 'is your name Vandeleur; are you the boys at school with Gerard Nestor?'

'Yes,' said Harry, opening his eyes very wide, 'and--would you mind telling me who you are?' he added bluntly.

'I'm Helena Wingfield,' I said. 'This is my home. I have come back alone, all the way from London, because----' and I stopped short.

'Because?' repeated Harry, looking at me with his kind, though searching eyes. Something in his manner made me feel that I must answer him. He was only a boy, not nearly as 'grown-up' in manners or appearance as Gerard Nestor; there was something even a little rough about him, but still he seemed at once to take the upper hand with me; I felt that I must respect him.

'Because--' I faltered, feeling it very difficult to keep from crying--'because I was so miserable in London in your--in Cousin Cosmo's house. He is my cousin, you know,' I went on, 'though his name is different.'

'I know,' said Harry, quietly, 'he's our cousin too, and our guardian.

But you're better off than we are--you've got your grandmother. I know all about you, you see. But how on earth did she let you come away like this alone? Or is she--no, she can't be with you, surely?'

'No,' I replied, 'I'm alone, I thought I told you so; and grandmamma doesn't know I've come away, of course she wouldn't have let me. n.o.body does know.'

Harry's face grew very grave indeed, and Lindsay raised himself from stooping over the fire, and stood staring at me as if I was something very extraordinary.

'Your grandmother doesn't know?' repeated Harry, 'n.o.body knows? How could you come away like that? Why, your grandmother will be nearly out of her mind about you!'

'No, she won't,' I replied, 'she doesn't care for me now, it's all quite different from what it used to be. n.o.body cares for me, they'll only be very glad to be rid of the trouble of me.'

The tears had got up into my eyes by this time, and as I spoke they began slowly to drop on to my cheeks. Harry saw them, I knew, but I didn't feel as if I cared, though I think I wanted him to be sorry for me, his kind face looked as if he would be. So I was rather surprised when, instead of saying something sympathising and gentle, he answered rather abruptly--

'Helena, I don't mean to be rude, for of course it's no business of mine, but I think you must know that you are talking nonsense. I don't mean about Mr. Vandeleur, or any one but your grandmother; but as for saying that she has left off caring for you, that's all--perfectly impossible. _I_ know enough for that; you've been with her all your life, and she's been most awfully good to you----'

'I know she has,' I interrupted, 'that makes it all the worse to bear.'

'We'll talk about that afterwards,' said Harry, 'it's your grandmother you should think of now--what do you mean to do?'

I stared at him, not quite understanding.

'I meant to stay here,' I said, 'with Kezia. If I can't--if you count it your house and won't let me stay, I must go somewhere else. But you can't stop my staying here till I've seen Kezia.'

Harry gave an impatient exclamation.

'Can't you understand,' he said, 'that I meant what are you going to do about letting your grandmother know where you are?'

'I hadn't thought about it,' I said; 'perhaps they won't find out till to-morrow morning.'

And then in my indignation I went on to tell him about the lonely life I had had lately, ending up with an account of my fall down the stairs and what I had overheard about being sent away to school.

'Poor Helena,' said Lindsay.

Harry, too, was sorry for me, I know, but just then he did not say much.

'All the same,' he replied, after listening to me, 'it wouldn't be right to risk your grandmother's being frightened, any longer. I'll send a telegram at once.'

The village post and telegraph office was only a quarter of a mile from our house. Harry turned to leave the room as he spoke.

'Lindsay, you'll look after Helena till I come back,' he said. 'I daresay Kezia won't be in for an hour or so.'

I stopped him.

'You mustn't send a telegram without telling me what you are going to say,' I said.

He looked at me.

'I shall just put--"Helena is here, safe and well,"' he replied, and to this I could not make any reasonable objection.

'I may be safe, but I don't think I am well,' I said grumblingly when he had gone. 'I'm starving, to begin with. I've had nothing to eat all day except two buns I bought at Paddington Station, and my head's aching dreadfully.'

'Oh, dear,' said Lindsay, who was a soft-hearted little fellow, and most ready to sympathise, especially in those troubles which he best understood, 'you must be awfully hungry. We had our tea some time ago, but Kezia always gives us supper. Come into the kitchen and let's see what we can find--or no, you're too tired--you stay here and I'll forage for you.'

He went off, returning in a few minutes with a jug of milk and a big slice of one of Kezia's own gingerbread cakes. I thought nothing had ever tasted so good, and my headache seemed to get better after eating it and drinking the milk.

I was just finishing when Harry came in again.