"Very well, then; I shall try my best to do as you and papa wish."

That was all Edith said, and Mrs. Harley was quite surprised. She had expected tears and protests, stormy and pa.s.sionate remonstrances--not this quiet submission so unlike Edith.

Perhaps no one understood the girl less than her own mother. It might have helped Mrs. Harley to know something of her daughter's inner nature if she could have seen her, after their talk together, steal quietly up to the nursery, where there were only the little ones at play, and, throwing her arms round little Francie, burst into a fit of quiet sobbing that fairly frightened the child.

"What is it, Edie? Don't cry, Edie! Francie'll give you a kiss, twenty kisses, if you won't cry," said the pretty baby voice.

"Your poor Edie's going away, and it will break her heart to leave you, my pet," said the girl through her tears, straining the child in a pa.s.sionate embrace. Presently she grew calmer, and put the wondering little one down.

"There, Francie, I've done crying now, and you needn't mind. You'll always love Edie, won't you, if she does go away?"

"Yes, always, always love Edie," said the child; and Johnnie chimed in too, "And me--me always love Edie."

But there were the boys to be told after that--Alfred and Claude, the two bright boys of ten and eight years, who had been her own especial playmates; and loud was their outcry when they heard that Edith was going.

"We might as well have no sisters," said the ungrateful young rascals.

"Maude and Jessie don't care for us. They only think we're in the way.

They're always telling us to wipe our feet, and not make such a noise; and Francie's too little for anything. We'd only got Edith, and now she's to go. It's too bad, that it is!"

But their protest availed nothing. The very same night Dr. Harley wrote to his sister, thanking her for her kind offer, and adding that, if convenient, he would bring his daughter Edith, fifteen years of age, to her aunt's home at Silchester in a week's time.

There was much to do in that short week in getting Edith's wardrobe into something like order. Each of the elder sisters sacrificed one of their limited number of dresses to be cut down and altered for the younger one.

The May sunshine of a rather late spring was beginning to grow warm and genial at last, and the girl really must have a new hat and gloves and shoes, and one or two print frocks, before she could possibly put in an appearance at Aunt Rachel's.

Almost anything had done for running about the lanes at Winchcomb, where every one knew the Harleys, and respected them far more for not going beyond their means, than they would have done for any quant.i.ty of fine apparel.

[Sidenote: Goodbye!]

But the preparations were finished at last, the goodbyes were said, and Edith, leaving home for the first time in her life, sat gravely by her father's side in the train that was timed to reach Silchester by six in the evening.

She had been up very early that morning, before any of the others were astir; and when she was dressed, went out into the garden, where she could be alone, to think her last thoughts of the wonderful change in her life.

She had gone on always so carelessly and happily, that the new turn of affairs sobered and startled her. She seemed to herself to say goodbye, not only to her home, but to the long, bright, happy childhood that had been spent there. And her thoughts were full of the few words Mrs.

Harley had spoken about her papa's expenses and worries.

"If I had only known," she said to herself; "if I had only thought about things, I would have tried to learn more, and be some help while I was here. But it is no use grieving about that now; it seems to me I am come to what our rector calls a 'turning point.' I can begin from to-day to act in a different way, and I will. I will just think in everything how I can help them all at home. I will try to please Aunt Rachel, and get her to like me, and then perhaps I shall grow in time to bear the thought of staying with her for a long, long while. Only, my poor boys and my dear little Johnnie and Francie--I did think I should have had you always. But it will be good for you, too, if I get on well at Silchester."

When she had gone so far, Nancy, the housemaid, came out with broom and bucket, and the mingled sounds of laughing and crying, and babel of many voices that floated out through the opened windows, told Edith that the family were rising for the last breakfast together.

It was a good thing when all the farewells were over, and for the first few miles of the journey she was thankful to sit in silence in the stuffy second-cla.s.s carriage, and use all her strength of will to keep back the tears that would try to come.

"Papa," she said shyly, as her father laid down his newspaper, and woke up to the fact that the two ladies who had begun the journey with them had got out at the last station--"papa, I want you to promise me something, please."

"Well, Edith, what is it?"

"I want you to promise not to tell Aunt Rachel about all the things that I have done--while I was at home, I mean."

"You have never done anything very dreadful, child," said the doctor with a smile. "Your Aunt Rachel has not been accustomed to little girls, it is true; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old woman."

[Sidenote: "I will do my very best"]

"No; but if she knew about Johnnie and Francie falling into the water, and about the chickens, and how Alfred and I let Farmer Smith's cow into the potato-field, and the other things, she might not understand that I am going to be different; and I shall be different--I shall indeed, papa."

"Yes, Edith, it is time you began to be more thoughtful, and to remember that there are things in the world, even for boys and girls, far more important than play. If it will be any comfort to you, I will readily promise not to mention the cow, or the chickens, or even that famous water escapade. But I shall trust to your own good sense and knowledge of what is right, and shall expect you to make for yourself a good character with your aunt. You may be sure she will, from the first, be influenced much more by your behaviour than by anything I can say."

"Yes, I know," murmured Edith. "I will do my very best."

She would have liked to say something about helping her father in his difficulties, but the shyness that generally overcame her when she talked to him prevented any further words on the subject; and Dr. Harley began to draw her attention to the objects of interest they were pa.s.sing, and to remark that in another twenty minutes they would be half-way to Silchester.

It seemed a long while to Edith before the train drew up in the large, gla.s.s-roofed station, so different from the little platform at Winchcomb, with the station-master's white cottage and fragrant flower-borders. Silchester is not a very large town, but to the country-bred girl the noise and bustle of the station, and of the first two or three streets through which they were driven in the cab Dr.

Harley had called, seemed almost bewildering.

Very soon, however, they began to leave shops and busy pavements behind, and to pa.s.s pretty, fancifully-built villas, with very high-sounding names, and trim flower-gardens in front. Even these ceased after a while, and there were first some extensive nursery grounds, and then green open fields on each hand.

"It will be quite the country after all, papa!" exclaimed Edith, surprised.

"Not quite, Edith. You will only be two or three miles out of Silchester, instead of twenty miles from everywhere, as we are at Winchcomb. Look! that is Aunt Rachel's house, just where the old Milford Lane turns out of the road--that house at the corner, I mean."

"Where?" said Edith, half-bewildered. Her unaccustomed eyes could see nothing but greenery and flowers at first, for Miss Harley's long, low, two-storey cottage was entirely overgrown with dense ma.s.ses of ivy and other creeping plants. It stood well back from the road, in a gra.s.sy, old-fashioned garden, shaded by some fine elms; and one magnificent pear-tree, just now glorious in a robe of white blossoms, grew beside the entrance-gate.

"Oh, papa, what a lovely old house!" cried the girl involuntarily. "Did you know it was like this?"

Dr. Harley smiled.

"I suppose you think it lovely, Edith. I have often wondered, for my own part, why your aunt should bury herself here. But come--jump out; there she is at the door. The King's Majesty would not draw her to the garden gate, I think."

Edith got out of the cab, feeling like a girl in a dream, and followed her father up the gravel walk, noting mechanically the gorgeous colouring of tulips and hyacinths that filled the flower-beds on either hand.

A tall, grey-haired lady, well advanced in life, came slowly forward, holding out a thin, cold hand, and saying in a frigid tone, "Well, brother, so we meet again after these ten years. I hope you are well, and have left your wife and family well also."

[Sidenote: A Doubtful Welcome]

"Quite well, thank you, Rachel, excepting Maria, who is never very well, you know," said the doctor heartily, taking the half-proffered hand in both his. "And how are you, after all this long time? You don't look a day older than when we parted."

"I am sorry I cannot return the compliment," remarked the lady, with a grim smile. "I suppose it is all the care and worry of your great family of children that have aged you so. And Maria was always such a poor, shiftless creature. I daresay, now, with all that your boys and girls cost you, you have two or three servants to keep, instead of making the girls work, and saving the wages and the endless waste that the best of servants make."

"We have but two," said the doctor, in a slightly irritated tone of voice. "My girls and their mother are ladies, Rachel, if they are poor.

I can't let them do the rough work. For the rest, they have their hands pretty full, I can a.s.sure you. You have little idea, living here as you do, how much there is to be done for a family of nine children."

"No, I am thankful to say I have not. But you had better come in, and bring the girl with you."

With these ungracious words Aunt Rachel cast her eyes for the first time upon Edith, who had stood a silent and uncomfortable listener while her father and aunt were talking.

"Humph!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Miss Harley, after looking her niece over from top to toe with a piercing, scrutinising gaze, that seemed to take in every detail of figure, face, and toilette, and to disapprove of all; "humph!

The child looks healthy, and that is all I can say for her. But bring her in, Henry--Stimson and the boy can see to her box. I suppose you will stay yourself for to-night?"

"I should not be able to go home to-night, as you know," replied Dr.

Harley. "But if my staying would be at all inconvenient, I can go to one of the Silchester hotels."