Mrs. Wylie laid her hand on my arm.

'There will be a good deal to talk over,' she said, speaking still very quietly, but rather gravely. 'And I feel that your dear mamma is the right person to--to explain things--your mistakes, and all about it. I believe certainly you did not _mean_ to do wrong.'

Her mention of mamma startled me into remembering at last how frightened she and all of them would be at home.

'Oh!' I exclaimed, 'if we stay away all night, what _will_ mamma do?'

'I was just going to tell you what we have done,' said Mrs. Wylie. 'That was what kept us--Beryl and me. We have telegraphed to your mamma. She will not be frightened now. Indeed, I hope she may have got the telegram in time to prevent her beginning to be anxious. And we also--' but here she stopped, for a glance at Margaret, as she told me afterwards, reminded her of Margaret's fears lest she should be sent back to Rock Terrace and Miss Bogle. And what she had been on the point of saying was, that they had also telegraphed to 'the witch.'

'It was awfully good of you,' I said, feeling more and more ashamed of the trouble we were causing.

I would have given anything to go home that night, even if it had been to find papa and mamma more displeased with me than they had ever been in their life, and, as I was beginning to see, as they had a right to be. But in the face of all Mrs. Wylie and Beryl were doing, I could not possibly have gone against what they thought best.

'I shall also write to your mamma to-night,' Mrs. Wylie went on. 'There is plenty of time. It is not really as late as the fog makes it seem.

And the first thing we now have to do,' for just then Margaret had another bad fit of coughing, 'is to put this child to bed. If you are not better in the morning, or rather if you are any worse, we must send for the doctor.'

'Oh, _please_ don't!' said Margaret, as soon as she could speak. 'It's only the fog got into my throat. It doesn't hurt me at all, as it did when I had that very bad cold at home. I don't like strange doctors, _please_, Mrs. Wylie. And to-morrow nursey can send for our own doctor at home at Hill Horton, if I'm not quite well. I may go home to my nursey quite early, mayn't I? And you will tell their mamma not to be vexed with them, won't you? They only wanted to help me.'

She looked such a shrimp of a creature, with her tiny face, so pale too, that n.o.body could have found it in their heart to scold her. Mrs. Wylie just patted her hand and said something about putting it all right, but that she must go to bed now and have a good long sleep.

And just then Beryl, who had left us with Mrs. Wylie, came back to say that everything was ready for Margaret upstairs, and then she walked her and the red bundle off--to put her to bed.

I really think that by this time Margaret was so tired that she scarcely knew where she was: she did not make the least objection, but was as meek as a mouse. You would never have thought her the same child as the determined little 'ordering-about' sort of child I knew she could be, and I, rather suspected, generally _had_ been till she came under stricter management.

When she was alone with us--with Peterkin and me--Mrs. Wylie spoke a little more about the whole affair. But not very much. She had evidently made up her mind to leave things in mamma's hands. And she did not at all explain any of the sort of mystery there seemed about Margaret.

She rang the bell and told Browner to take us upstairs to the little room that had been got ready for us, and where we were to sleep, saying, that she herself was now going to write to mamma.

'_And_ to Miss Bogle,' she added, 'though I thought it better not to say so to Margaret.'

She looked at us rather curiously as she spoke; I think she most likely wanted to find out what we really believed about 'the witch.' Peterkin started, and grew very red.

'You won't let her go back there?' he exclaimed. 'I'm sure she'll run away again if you do.'

It sounded rather rude, but Mrs. Wylie knew that he did not mean it for rudeness. She only looked at him gravely.

'I am very anxious to see how your little friend is to-morrow morning,'

she replied. 'I earnestly hope she has not caught any serious cold.'

The way she said it frightened me a little somehow, though we children often caught cold and didn't think much about it. But then we were all strong. None of us ever coughed the way Margaret used to about that time, except when we had hooping-cough, and it wasn't that that she had got, I knew.

'You don't think she is going to be badly ill?' I said, feeling as if it would be all my fault if she was.

Mrs. Wylie only repeated that she hoped not.

We couldn't do much in the way of dressing or tidying ourselves up, as we had nothing with us, not even a red bundle. We could only wash our faces and hands, which were _black_ with the fog, so having them clean was an improvement. And there was a very pretty brush and comb put out for us--Beryl's own. I think it was awfully good of her to lend us her nice things like that. I don't believe Blanchie would have done it, though I daresay mamma would. So we made ourselves as decent-looking as we could, and our collars didn't look as bad that evening as in the daylight the next morning.

And then Beryl put her head in at the door and told us to come down to the drawing-room, where her father was.

'He is not able to go up and down stairs just now,' she said. 'His rheumatism is very bad. So he stays in the drawing-room, and we dine earlier than usual for his sake--at seven.'

She went on talking, partly to make us more comfortable, for I knew we were both looking very shy. And just outside the drawing-room door she smiled and said, 'Don't be frightened of him, he is the kindest person in the world.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FRILLS HAD WORKED UP ALL ROUND HIS FACE.--p. 173.]

So he was, I am sure. He had white hair and a thin white face, and he was sitting in a big arm-chair, and he shook hands kindly, and didn't seem to mind our being there a bit. Of course, Beryl had explained it all to him, and it was easy to see that he was most awfully fond of her, and pleased with everything she did. All the same, I was very glad, though it sounds horrid, that he couldn't come downstairs. It didn't seem half so frightening with only Mrs. Wylie and Beryl.

Peterkin got very sleepy before dinner was really over. I think he nodded once or twice at dessert, though he was very offended when I said so afterwards. I began to feel jolly tired too, and we were both very glad to go to bed. There was a fire in our room. 'Miss Wylie had ordered it because of the fog,' the servant said. Wasn't it kind of her?

We couldn't help laughing at the things they had tried to find for us instead of proper night things--jackety sort of affairs, with lots of frills and fuss. I don't know if they belonged to mother Wylie or to Beryl. But we were too sleepy to mind, though next morning Pete was awfully offended when I said he looked like Red-Riding Hood's grandmother, as the frills had worked up all round his face, and he looked still queerer when he got out of bed, as his robe trailed on the floor, with his being so short.

He did not wake as early as usual, but I did. And for a minute or two I _couldn't_ think where I was. And I didn't feel very happy when I did remember.

The fog had gone, but it still looked gloomy, compared with home. Still I was glad it was clear, both because I wanted so to go home, and also because of Margaret's cold. I think that was what I first thought of. If only she didn't get ill, I thought I wouldn't mind how angry they were with me. As to Peterkin, I would stand up for him, if he needed it, though I didn't think he would. They'd be sure to remind me how much older I was, and pleasant things like that. And yet when I went over and over it in my own mind, I couldn't get it clear what else I could have done. There _are_ puzzles like that sometimes, and anyway it was better than if Margaret had run away alone, and perhaps got really lost.

And, after all, as you will hear, I hadn't much blame to bear. The name of this chapter will show thanks to whom _that_ was.

When we were dressed--and oh, how we longed for clean collars!--we made our way down to the dining-room. Beryl was there already, and I saw that she looked even prettier by daylight, such as it was than the evening before. She smiled kindly, and said she hoped we had managed to sleep well.

'Oh yes, thank you,' we said, 'but--' and we both looked round the room.

'How is Margaret?'

'None the worse, I am glad to say,' Beryl answered, and then I thought to myself I might have guessed it, by Beryl's bright face. 'I really think it was only the fog that made her cough so last night. She looks a very delicate little girl, however, and she speaks of having had a very bad cold not long ago, which may have been something worse than a cold.

So I made her stay in bed for breakfast, till----'

At that moment the parlour-maid brought in a telegram. Beryl opened it, and then handed it to me. It was from mamma.

'A thousand thanks for telegram and letter. Coming myself by earliest train possible.'

'It's very good of mamma,' I said, and in my heart I was glad she was coming before we--or I--saw papa. For though he is very kind too, he is not quite so 'understanding,' and a good deal sharper, especially with us boys. I suppose fathers need to be, and I suppose boys need it more than girls.

'Yes,' said Beryl, and though she had been so awfully jolly about the whole affair, I could tell by her tone that she was glad that some one belonging to us was coming to look after us all. 'It is very satisfactory. My aunt said she would come round early too. I think it will be quite safe for Margaret to get up now, so I will go and tell her she may. You will find some magazines and picture-papers in my little sitting-room, behind this room, if you can amuse yourselves there till auntie comes.'

I stopped her a moment as she was leaving the room, to ask what I knew Peterkin was longing to hear.

'Mamma will take us home, of course,' I said, 'but what do you think will be done about Margaret?'

'They--' whom he meant by 'they' I don't know, and I don't think he knew himself--'they won't send her back to the witch, you don't think, do you?' he burst out, growing very red.

Beryl hesitated. Then she said quietly--

'No, I _don't_ think so,' and Peterkin gave a great sigh of relief. If she had answered that she _did_ think so, I believe he would have broken into a howl. I really do.

It seemed rather a long time that we had to wait in Beryl's room before anything else happened. Peterkin said it felt a good deal like waiting at the dentist's, and I agreed with him. It was the looking at the picture-papers that put it into his head, I think.

We heard the front-door bell ring several times, and once I was sure I caught Beryl's voice calling, 'Auntie, is it you?' but it must have been nearly twelve o'clock--breakfast had been a good deal later than at home--before the door of the room where we were, opened, and some one came in. I was standing staring out of the window, which looked into a very small sort of fernery or conservatory, and wishing Beryl had told me to water the plants, when I heard a voice behind me.

'Boys!' it said; 'Giles?' and turning round, I saw that it was mamma. I forgot all about being found fault with and everything else, and just flew to her, and so did poor old Pete, and then--I am almost ashamed to tell it, though perhaps I should not be--I broke out crying!