"Yes, sir--Annie Straggalls, sir, plee, sir."

"Then why don't you give me the letter, child? Who is it from?"

"Teacher, plee, sir."

A flush came into the vicar's pale cheeks, and he raised his drooping lids as he impatiently held out his hand and waited while Ann Straggalls struggled to produce the letter. She had had some difficulty in placing it in what she considered to be a safe receptacle, forcing it down below the string that ran round the top of her frock. That struggle, however, was nothing to the one which now took place to release the missive, for the note had crept down to somewhere about Ann Straggalls' waist where it was lying so comfortable and warm that it refused to be dislodged, in spite of the pushing of one hand, and the thrustings down of the other.

The young lady posed herself in a variety of att.i.tudes, reaching up, bending down, leaning first on one side, then upon the other, but all in vain. She grew red in the face, her hands were hot, and the vicar became more and more impatient; but the letter was not forthcoming, and at last she exclaimed, with a doleful expression of countenance--

"Plee, sir, I can't get it out."

"You've lost it," cried the vicar angrily.

"No, sir, I ain't, plee, sir. I can feel it quite plain, but it's slithered down to my waist."

"You tiresome girl!" cried the vicar impatiently, for it was an awkward dilemma, and he was beginning to think of the penknife in his vest pocket, and the possibility of cutting the note free without injury to the young lady's skin, when she solved the difficulty herself by running off to where she saw a little girl standing, and the result of the companion's efforts was so successful that Ann Straggalls came running back beaming with pleasure, the letter in her hand.

"Good girl!" exclaimed the vicar, thrusting a sixpence into her palm, as he eagerly s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter, devoured the address with his eyes, and the flush died out of his cheeks.

"Why, the letter is for Mr Burge," he said excitedly.

"Yes, sir; for Mr William Forth Burge, plee, sir."

"Take it," exclaimed the vicar huskily, and thrusting the note hastily into the girl's hands, he turned sharply round and walked back into the house, thoroughly unnerved by the incident, trifling as it may seem.

"He's give me sixpence!" said Ann Straggalls wonderingly; and then--"Didn't he seem cross!"

At last, after these interruptions, which duly published the fact that Hazel Thorne openly wrote to Mr William Forth Burge, the note came to that gentleman's hand, for Ann Straggalls reached the gate, pushed it wide open, and knowing from experience what a splendid gate it was, she pa.s.sed through, and stopped to watch it as it swung back past the post, with the latch giving a loud click, and away ever so far in the other direction; then back again with another click; away again with another, and then to and fro, quicker and quicker, click--click--click--click-- clack, when the latch caught in its proper notch, and Ann Straggalls smiled with satisfaction, and wished that she had such a gate for her own.

The clicking of the gate took the attention of Mr William Forth Burge, who was busy amongst his standard rose-trees, with a quill-pen and a saucer, using the former to brush off the abundant aphides from the buds into the latter. He smiled with satisfaction as he released from its insect burden some favourite rose, whose name was hanging from it upon a label like that used for the old-fashioned medicine bottles--"one tablespoonful every four hours"--but, all the same, it was undoubtedly unpleasant for the aphides that were being slaughtered by the thousand.

Miss Burge had her work and a garden-seat, and she was looking up from time to time, and smiling her satisfaction at seeing her brother so happy, for of late he had been dull and overclouded, and did not take to his dinners and his cigars so heartily as of old.

She too looked up as the gate clicked, and together the brother and sister watched the coming girl, who had not seen them yet, but was staring, open-mouthed, at the various flowers. First she made a pause before one, and her fingers twitched with the intense desire she felt to pick it; then before another which she bent down to smell, and so on and on slowly, fighting hard and successfully against temptation, till she came to a rose in full bloom, before which she came to a complete standstill.

"Oh, you beauty!" she cried aloud as she bent down and began sniffing with all her might. "Oh, don't I wish Feelier Potts was here!"

But Feelier Potts was not there, fortunately for Mr William Forth Burge's _Gloire de Bordeaux_, for that young lady would have felt no more scruple in ravaging the bush than in picking the b.u.t.tercups and daisies of the fields; so at last Ann Straggalls turned with a sigh of regret, to find herself face to face, with the owner of the garden, who was smiling at her blandly.

"Plee, sir, I've brought a letter, sir, from teacher, sir."

Little Miss Burge felt startled as she saw the change that came over her brother's face, for, in place of its customary ruddiness, it grew mottled, and he stood gazing at the girl as if her words could not be true.

"A letter? For me?"

"Yes, sir, plee, sir; teacher sent it."

"Take her in, Betsey; give her some cake or biscuits," he said hastily, as he almost s.n.a.t.c.hed the missive.

Little Miss Burge sighed as she took the girl by the hand and led her away, Mr William Forth Burge following directly after with the letter, which he took into his study, for it was too sacred to be read out in the open air.

It only took a minute to seat Ann Straggalls in the hall with a big lump of cake in her hand, portions of which she transferred to her mouth and worked at with machine-like regularity, and then Miss Burge hurried to the study, to find her brother walking up and down in a great state of excitement.

"Betsey," he cried hoa.r.s.ely, "she's written to me--she's sent for me!"

"Oh, Bill, has she?" cried the little woman sadly.

"Yes; she's written to me--she's sent for me."

"Bill dear, I don't like that."

"What?"

"It don't--please don't be angry with me--but it don't seem nice."

"Not nice--not nice!" he cried almost fiercely. "Why, read here. Poor gal! she's in trouble. There's something wrong. Here, where's my best coat. I'll go down."

"Oh! that's different," cried little Miss Burge, who seemed greatly relieved. "Poor girl! Why, whatever can be the matter?"

"I don't know. You mustn't stop me, Betsey," he cried. "I must go directly--I must."

"Oh, Bill! Bill! Bill!" sobbed the little lady, throwing her arms round his neck and bursting into tears.

"I can't help it, Betsey," he cried; "I can't help it. I never had it before, but I've got it badly now, dear; and I ain't a bit ashamed to own it to you."

"Oh, Bill!"

"Don't try to stop me, Betsey."

"But you won't do anything foolish, dear?"

"It wouldn't be foolish if it was her," he said excitedly.

"No, Bill, I suppose not; but I don't like her sending for you to come."

"There, there," he cried, "I won't hear another word." And he proved it by hurriedly taking his hat and going down straight to the school, leaving his sister in tears, and Ann Straggalls deep in cake.

Mr Chute was on the look-out, and saw him pa.s.s, and directly after the schoolmaster took up a slate and a pencil, and placing the slate against the part.i.tion, began to write thereon, with his back to the boys, but with his eager eyes gazing through the slit at where Hazel was busy with her pupils.

A minute later he saw Mr William Forth Burge enter the schoolroom and shake hands. Hazel spoke to him, but the words did not reach Chute's ears; and soon after, as the hands pointed to twelve, the children were dismissed, and Hazel and Mr William Forth Burge were alone, but, to Chute's great disgust they went out and into the cottage.

"Well, of all the shabby--Oh, I can't stand this!" cried the schoolmaster, stamping his feet. "It's too bad."

But, bad or good, he had to submit to it for his chance of overhearing the conversation was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"I'M VERY GLAD YOU'RE IN TROUBLE."