"MARIGOLD, it is time for the boys to go to bed. I wish you would give them their supper, as I want to get this embroidery finished to-night, if possible."

The speaker was Mrs. Holcroft, a pale-faced, dark-eyed woman of about thirty-five, with a slight figure, and a somewhat nervous manner. She had been six years a widow, and a snowy cap rested on her brown hair—hair that was streaked with white around her temples. Marigold, her little daughter, aged eleven, was seated at a corner of the square table that stood in the middle of the sitting-room, so engrossed in the story-book she was reading that she failed to grasp the sense of her mother's request, and looked up inquiringly.

"What was that you said, mother?" she asked, turning a pair of thoughtful dark eyes upon her mother as she spoke, and carefully marking the place she was reading with a slip of paper before shutting her book,—"Something about the boys wasn't it?"

"Yes, dear. It is their bedtime, and I want you to see about their supper. I am sorry to disturb you, but—"

A slight sigh, and a glance at the work on which she was employed finished the sentence. Mrs. Holcroft added to her scanty means by doing art-needlework for a fashionable West-End shop, and all her spare moments were spent in designing new patterns for her embroideries, or in executing the orders she was fortunate enough to obtain.

"Of course I will see to the boys," Marigold replied cheerfully. "Must that work be finished to-night, mother?"

"Yes, my dear. You know the quarter's rent will be due next week, and we are badly in want of many things."

Marigold glanced around the shabby sitting-room with a sigh, as she rose and put away her book on a shelf. Then she crossed to her mother's side, and kissed her pale face lovingly.

"It's a shame you should have to work so hard, mother!" she whispered.

"Nonsense, my dear. I want to have a talk with you presently, Marigold; but put the boys to bed first."

The little girl went from the sitting-room into the kitchen, where her two brothers, Rupert and Lionel, aged respectively nine and seven, were amusing themselves, each in the way he liked best, Rupert with his fretwork, and Lionel by sticking coloured pictures into his scrap-book. At her desire they willingly cleared up the litter they had made; and then she set about getting their supper, which was comprised of thick bread-and-butter and a cup of cocoa apiece.

Mrs. Holcroft and her three children occupied a small flat—really a workman's flat—in a cheap suburb of London. Their home comprised one sitting-room, a kitchen and scullery, and three bedrooms. The mother, with her little daughter's assistance, did the housework, and the money they thus saved was spent in sending the two boys to a day-school. So far Mrs. Holcroft had instructed Marigold. The child was quick to learn, and though not behind other girls of her age in general knowledge, Mrs. Holcroft realised that she ought to be sent to school, and how to provide ways and means to bring about this result had long been weighing on the mother's mind.

When the boys were at last safely in bed, and Marigold had turned out the gas in their bedroom, she went back to the sitting-room, and found that Mrs. Holcroft had finished her work and was carefully folding it up.

"The labour of the day is over," Mrs. Holcroft remarked brightly. "I must go and kiss the boys good-night, and then you and I will have a cosy chat, Marigold."

The little girl poked the fire into a blaze, and pulled an easy-chair closer to the hearth. Outside the wild March wind was howling, and the rain pattering against the window-pane, whilst now and then the roll of a cab's wheels, or hurrying footsteps on the pavement were heard in a lull of the gale.

"What a weird night it is!" Mrs. Holcroft exclaimed, as she returned from saying good-night to her little sons. "Poor sailors! I pity them in this storm!"

She sank wearily into the easy-chair, and Marigold drew a stool close to her side on the hearthrug, and sat down on it, leaning her arms on her mother's knees.

"You always think of the poor sailors in a storm," she said; "I suppose that is because you are a sailor's daughter, mother."

"Yes, doubtless. And then, you know, Marigold, I always lived by the sea until I married your father; after that we led a somewhat wandering life for years. Your father was with his regiment, and of course I went with him."

Mrs. Holcroft was silent for a moment, her dark eyes looked troubled, and her hands nervously clasped and unclasped themselves in her lap.

"I want to tell you a little about your father and his people, my dear," she continued, "because I think you are old enough now to know why they were angry with him. It was because he married me, Marigold."

"Because he married you, mother!" the little girl echoed, in accents of intense surprise.

"Yes. I was an only child, and lived with my father in a little West-country fishing village. Father was a retired sea-captain, and our home overlooked the sea. I had such a happy girlhood, and never had a trouble in my life till one day when father told me that he had risked all his savings in one speculation which had failed, and we were ruined. Father only lived a week after that; the shock of knowing that he was penniless killed him!"

"How sad!" Marigold cried. "And it was then you married my father, wasn't it?"

"Yes. He was only a subaltern at that time, though later he was raised to the rank of captain. We had known each other a good while, for he used to stay in our village for the fishing. We were married hurriedly on account of poor father's death, and afterwards I discovered that the step my husband had taken had offended the nearest relatives he had, two maiden aunts who had brought him up from infancy, and who had always loved him very dearly."

"He thought that because they were so fond of him they would forgive his marrying without first consulting them; but he was mistaken. He went to see them, but they would have nothing to do with him, and declared they would never forgive him. He would never go near them again, for they were rich, and he feared they would think he wanted their money, when really he was anxious only to be friends with them because they had been so very good and kind to him in the past. When he died I wrote to them, and they answered me politely, and offered to take you, Marigold, and bring you up as they had done your father."

"Oh, mother!"

"I refused. I do not know if I was right or wrong; but I think, I hope I was right! I could not give you up to them, then. I wanted to train my little girl myself till she should be old enough to remember her mother's teaching. I believe my husband's aunts to be good women, but I could not leave it to them to set your infant feet in the way of truth—that I felt was your mother's privilege, a duty for which I was accountable to God."

Mrs. Holcroft's usually pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, her dark eyes glowed with the light of a great purpose.

"And so I chose to rear you in poverty, to work for you myself, and I have never regretted it. But, latterly, I have known that you ought to have advantages of education that I cannot give you; and so, Marigold, a few days ago I wrote to your father's aunts, and asked them for the sake of the love they once bore their nephew to assist his daughter to obtain that which in the future should enable her to earn her own living. In my pocket is their reply, written by Miss Pamela Holcroft, the younger of the sisters, who is, I have heard, much the sterner and less forgiving of the two!"

"Oh, mother!" Marigold broke in; "how could you ask them?"

Mrs. Holcroft smiled at the indignation in the child's voice as she answered—

"Remember they are your father's aunts, and would willingly, I believe gladly, have adopted you years ago, if I would have permitted it. I think they would have loved you very dearly, Marigold, and you would have had every comfort and luxury that money could supply—sometimes when we have had to go short at home I have wondered if, after all, I acted wisely!"

"Oh yes, yes, mother, be very sure you did! I don't mind being poor, so long as I am with you!"

"We have been happy together; you have been my right hand since you were a little toddling mite who used to insist on dusting the legs of the chairs for me! I do not know what I should have done without you through the dark days after your father's death, and of late years you have become very helpful in many ways. I am not naturally so brave as you, Marigold; you are a true soldier's daughter."

The little girl beamed with pleasure at these words of praise. The remembrance of her father was a dim memory, but she knew he had been an honourable man, an upright, truth-loving Christian gentleman, and her mother always spoke of him with tender affection and pride.

Mrs. Holcroft now took a large, square envelope from her pocket, from which she drew Miss Pamela Holcroft's letter, written in a fine flowing handwriting, and proceeded to read it aloud. It ran as follows:—

"NO — POWDERHAM CRESCENT,

EXETER, March. 18, 189—."

"To MRS. HOLCROFT."

"MADAM,—In reply to your letter to my sister

and myself, which we received yesterday, wherein

you request us for the sake of our nephew to

extend a favour to his daughter, and supply

you with the necessary means to enable you

to obtain for her such an education as will

allow her to earn her own living, I must tell

you that we are unanimous upon this point,

and distinctly decline to entertain the idea

for a moment."

"When our misguided nephew married without

our consent, and even without consulting us

in reference to the matter, we washed our hands

of him; but we desire to be just, and would not

visit the sins of the parents upon the children,

therefore we are willing to take the little girl,

Marigold, into our own home, to see she is

well-educated, and, if she prove tractable and

grateful, to provide for her future. We are

agreeable that she should write to you once

a fortnight, and if you please, that she should

visit you for a month once a year, that she

may not grow up a stranger to her mother and

brothers. We desire you to consider this offer

at your leisure, not hastily, but with due

thought, and are convinced that in doing so

you will realise what is best for the welfare

of our nephew's daughter.—I am, madam,

yours faithfully,"

"PAMELA HOLCROFT."

"There, darling," Mrs. Holcroft said, as she folded up the letter and returned it to her pocket, "now you know all. What am I to say to Miss Pamela?"

"Say that I can never, never leave you, mother!" Marigold cried passionately. "What a cold, horrid letter to write! As though I could ever live with a nasty old woman like that!"

"Hush, hush! You must not speak so! Think how good and kind your father's aunts always were to him, and he disappointed them more than you can understand! I feel he would wish you to go to them now, and if they should love you, my little daughter, they may learn to forgive him in time. I want you to take advantage of their generous offer, to learn all you possibly can, and grow up a clever, helpful woman, so that whatsoever betides in the future, you may be able to earn your own living. Miss Pamela says she and her sister will provide for you, but my great hope is that they will put you in the way of providing for yourself. It is my wish that you should go to Exeter, because I believe it will be for your ultimate good."

"Oh, mother, mother, do not send me away from you!"

The tears rose to Marigold's eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. She looked pitifully into her mother's face, and read there a look of mingled regret and determination,—regret at the coming parting, determination that no personal feeling or weakness on her part should mar her little daughter's prospects.

"I do not want to part with you, my darling," Mrs. Holcroft said gently; "I should like to keep you always by my side, but that cannot be. I believe it is my duty to let you go to Exeter to your aunts, and I want you not to put difficulties in the way. Our path in life is rarely smooth, but we can do much to make things easier, if we make up our minds to be cheerful, and contented with our lot. Let God choose. He will show you the way to go, stand by your side, and help you over all difficulties, if you humbly trust in Him. You know that, Marigold?"

"Yes, mother," the child acknowledged; "but—"

"But it is hard to trust, because you cannot see your way marked out quite clearly. Oh, my dear, we are all like little children treading an unknown road; but One has gone before who through trial and tribulation has overcome the obstacles that alarm us, and who will lead us on our pilgrimage through this world till we come to His everlasting kingdom. Marigold, you know you have Jesus for your Friend, do you not?"

"Yes, mother."

"To-night when you go to bed I want you to think of a verse of my favourite hymn, and see if you cannot make it a real prayer—"

"I dare not choose my lot;

I would not if I might;

Choose Thou for me, my God,

So shall I walk aright."'

So saying, Mrs. Holcroft took her little daughter's face between her two hands, and though her heart was heavy at the thought of the parting to come, she smiled brightly as she added—

"Dry your tears, my dear, and remember you are a soldier's daughter. You have a bright, happy spirit and a brave, loyal heart. I want you to be a great comfort to those two old aunts at Exeter, and I am sure if you try, it will not be long before you win their love."

Marigold choked back her tears, and endeavoured to smile, but it was a sorry attempt. It seemed to her that some terrible calamity had befallen her, and that she could never possibly be happy again as long as she lived.

[CHAPTER II]

A NEW STEP IN LIFE AND A NEW FRIEND

THE following morning Mrs. Holcroft, in spite of tears and protestations from Marigold, wrote to her husband's aunts and declared her acceptance of their offer, and in the course of a few posts received the reply, written as the preceding letter had been by Miss Pamela, the younger sister. Mrs. Holcroft knew that the elder Miss Holcroft—Aunt Mary—had been her husband's favourite aunt, being a much milder, gentler person than Miss Pamela, to whom she had grown accustomed to defer in every matter, whether of importance or not, and she rightly guessed that if Miss Holcroft had been allowed to entertain a mind of her own, she would have been friends with her nephew years before his death.

Mrs. Holcroft saw at once by the tenor of Miss Pamela's letter that she was really eager to see the little girl, and decided that as the parting was now inevitable it should not be delayed too long, or Marigold would have time to dwell on the thought of separation from her family. So the day was fixed for her journey westward, and preparations were commenced to renovate her somewhat scanty wardrobe. Marigold, who had at first been in the depths of despair at the idea of leaving her mother and brothers, could not help feeling an interest in these preparations, and as her mother was persistently cheerful, her own spirits began to revive. As to the boys, Marigold was somewhat hurt, to find that they did not seem to be much upset at the thought of being parted from her.

"I don't believe you care in the least," she told them vexedly.

"Oh yes, I do," Rupert answered. "We shall miss you, of course, for you're not a bad sort for a girl, Marigold! But think what a good time you will have, with servants to wait on you and money to spend! Oh, don't I wish I were in your place!"

"So do I!" little Lionel agreed.

"I wish you boys were going instead of me," Marigold grumbled. "I'm sure I'd much rather stay at home with mother—think how hard she'll have to work when I'm gone! She'll have to clean your boots, and—"

"No, she won't," Rupert interposed, "I'm to do that myself! I mean to get up earlier in the mornings and help mother like you do now, Marigold!"

"Oh, how nice of you, Rupert! And you'll write to me and let me know how you get on with your fretwork, and if you are put in a higher form at school next term, won't you?"

"Mother will be sure to tell you that. You're going to write to us once a fortnight, aren't you? Mind you say what Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela are like, and how you get on with them."

"Oh yes, I'll be sure to tell you that. I'm afraid I shan't like them much, though. I have an idea Aunt Pamela will be very stiff and disagreeable."

"I daresay," Rupert replied, not very hopefully. "Doesn't it seem funny to think they brought father up? Mother says he went to live with them when he was quite small. I say, Marigold, you are very expensive."

"Expensive?" the little girl said wonderingly. "What do you mean, Rupert?"

"You are having all sorts of new clothes—a jacket, and a hat, and two new frocks, and—"

"Oh, now I understand! Yes! Mother said she would not like me to go to Exeter shabby and wanting new things immediately. Oh dear, only two days more at home!"

Mrs. Holcroft coming into the room at that moment heard the conclusion of the sentence, and echoed Marigold's sigh. She had made up her mind that she would not fret at having to give up the charge of her little daughter to those who were complete strangers to her; once having decided in which direction her duty lay; she, never faltered in the course she had taken. Nor would she allow Marigold to repine, for this gentle woman, with her naturally nervous disposition, had a wonderful fund of strength in reality, founded on a firm belief in God and His power to uphold her in all trials of whatsoever nature.

The night before Marigold's departure she and her mother had a long, long talk after the boys had retired to rest; and, much to the little girl's surprise and delight, her mother put into her hands the Bible that had been her dead father's constant companion.

"I wish you to have it, my dear," Mrs. Holcroft said tenderly. "You will see by the flyleaf that it was given to your father by his aunts when he was quite a boy. The writing underneath is his own: 'Fight the good fight of Faith.' That was his motto, and I want it to be yours. He told me that he wrote it down there the same day he obtained his commission in the army, that he might not forget whilst he was serving his Queen and country that he was fighting too for the cause of One greater than any earthly monarch against mightier, more deadly evils than are ever overcome by the sword. At one time I thought of keeping this book for Rupert, but you are the first of my fledglings to leave the nest, and I think your father would like you to have it now."

"Oh, mother, are you sure you do not want to keep it for yourself?" Marigold inquired.

"Quite sure. I have many other things that belonged to your father, and I wish you to have his Bible, and take his motto for yours, will you?"

"Indeed, indeed I will!"

"And you will read from his Bible every day, and ask God to be with you in your new life? You are going into a different world, my darling, to the one you have been familiar with so long. Here we have worked amongst working people, but in Exeter with your aunts, you will be thrown with those who have always been accustomed to plenty of this world's goods, and be tried with temptations that have never crossed your path before. I pray my little daughter may be kept unspotted from the world, that she may hold fast to her father's motto all her life, and ever fight the good fight of Faith!"

Mrs. Holcroft had spoken very solemnly, holding Marigold's little hand in hers, and looking earnestly into her wistful dark eyes. There was a long silence, broken at length by Marigold's saying, with a deep-drawn sigh—

"To-morrow this time I suppose I shall be at Exeter?"

"Yes, dear. I want you to try to please your aunts, and be attentive to their wishes. They are getting old, and I have no doubt are rather particular and fidgety, but you must never be impatient if they are. I am afraid you are inclined to be untidy, so you must guard against leaving things out of place; then again, you are apt to speak too hastily, without reflecting if you are injuring anyone's feelings by doing so. You must learn to curb that unruly tongue of yours."

"Yes, mother, I will really try. But oh, I know I shall be so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy!"

"You will be a little lonely at first, no doubt; and you will miss the boys—"

"I shall miss you most of all, mother!"

"Ah, yes! But I shall be thinking of you, little daughter; and if you want to make me feel happy you must learn to be happy yourself."

Marigold had to say good-bye to the boys before they started for school, in the morning, as she would be gone before they returned. They clung around her neck kissing her, and crying all the while, for, now the parting had really come, they felt it quite as much as she did. Rupert forgot to be ashamed of his tears, as he sobbed out: "It's hard lines you should have to go, Marigold!" Whilst as for little Lionel he was in too great trouble to speak coherently at all.

But the worst time for Marigold was when she stood by her mother's side on the platform at Paddington Station, her modest trunk already labelled and in the train, and her mother's arms around her. She felt too dazed and shaken to say anything, and allowed herself to be placed in a compartment without uttering a word.

"Good-bye, my darling child," Mrs. Holcroft said. "The guard will see you get out at Exeter, and you know you will be met there."

"I'll see she's all right, ma'am," said a loud, jovial voice. "I'm going on by this train, and my destination is Exeter, too; so, if you'll entrust your little maid to me, I'll look after her to the best of my ability."

Mrs. Holcroft cast a quick look at the speaker. He was a tall, stout man, clad in a suit of tweed, and wore leather leggings. He had a brick-red complexion, a clean-shaven countenance, and a pair of kindly blue eyes; evidently a large man, with a large voice, and a large heart, if the mother's perception told her truly.

"How good of you!" she cried. "My little girl has never taken a long journey alone before."

"You may make your mind easy about her, ma'am."

"Thank you so much!"

There was no time for more conversation. The guard blew his whistle, and the train steamed out of the station, leaving Mrs. Holcroft gazing after it with the heaviest heart she had owned for many a day.

Marigold leaned back in her corner of the carriage, and tried hard not to cry, because she did not wish her fellow-travellers to notice her grief, and perhaps ask the cause. But, in spite of her efforts for composure the hot tears would come, and roll down her cheeks, till at last she had to take out her handkerchief and wipe them away.

She looked resolutely out of the window, trying to take an interest in the view, but it was all no good, she felt as though her heart was breaking. Having stealthily wiped her eyes for the third time, she glanced hastily around the compartment, and was much relieved to find that no one appeared to be paying her any attention, except her opposite neighbour, the stranger who had spoken to her mother, and he was peeping at her around the newspaper that he was holding open in front of him. When he met Marigold's tearful eyes he withdrew behind the newspaper, but the next moment he was peeping at her again, not curiously, but with a look of evident concern. This time he spoke—

"Have you ever been westward before?" he inquired.

"No, never!" she answered shyly.

"Ah, you have a treat in store, then! Fine place Exeter! Fine county Devon! I'm a Devonshire man; was born in a little village a few miles from Exeter."

"Oh! My mother and father were both born in Devonshire too!"

He brought his great hands down on his knees with a sounding smack that made his fellow-passengers start and regard him with amazement. Nothing abashed he laughed loudly.

"That's capital!" he cried. "Capital! That was your mother, I suppose, the lady on the platform at Paddington?"

"Yes."

At the thought of her mother the tears rose afresh to Marigold's eyes. Her new acquaintance saw them, and hastily turned the conversation to himself again.

"Yes, I'm Devonshire born," he continued; "my name's Joseph Adams, and my friends call me 'Farmer Jo.' Now, what, if I may make so bold as to ask, is your name, little missy?"

"Marigold Holcroft," she answered.

"Marigold! Why, that's the name of a flower! What made them call you that, I wonder? Marigold!" he repeated reflectively.

"It's quite a common flower, I know," she said, "but my mother loves it, because in the garden of her old home marigolds used to spring up year after year, and her father used to like them."

"Ah! you've got a good mother, I take it, little missy!"

"Yes, a very good mother," the little girl responded, and this time as she mentioned the dear name a smile crossed her face and drove away the tears. Her new friend looked at her approvingly, his jovial face radiant with good humour.

"I've got an old mother at home," he told her, "nigh upon eighty years of age she is, and hale and hearty still! She's a wonderful woman!"

Marigold looked interested, for to her young eyes the farmer, who was not more than forty-five, seemed quite old, and she was surprised to hear he had a mother living. She wondered if he had a wife and children too.

"I'm a bachelor," he continued, as though in answer to her thought, "and my mother keeps house for me. There's not a cleverer housewife in the county than she is! If you stay in Exeter long, I may run across you one of these days. Mother and I always drive into the city on Fridays—market-days, you know—and in the afternoon we give ourselves a treat. We go to the cathedral to hear the anthem."

"I am to live with my aunts," Marigold explained, "and their house is in Powderham Crescent. Perhaps you know that part?"

He nodded an assent. Marigold, who had by this time got over her first shyness, felt her spirits rising. At Didcot, Farmer Jo bought a packet of Banbury cakes, and gave it to her. The little girl, who had hardly tasted her breakfast, and was beginning to get hungry, thought she had never eaten anything so nice in her life before.

She began to enjoy the journey, and feasted her eyes on the beautiful scenery through which they were passing. The train sped on through meadowlands verdant with the rains of early spring, where young lambs skipped and jumped at play, and the little girl clapped her hands with delight at the sight.

"How beautiful everything is!" she exclaimed. "Oh, please, what are those flowers?"

"Cowslips," Farmer Jo answered, smiling at her enthusiasm, "and as we get farther down the line, you will see plenty of primroses too!"

"Oh, how lovely! I am so fond of flowers! I wish mother could see them!"

It was about four o'clock when the train at length neared Exeter.

"We are nearly come to the ever faithful city, little missy," Farmer Jo remarked.

Marigold looked at him inquiringly, wondering what he meant.

"The city's motto is Semper fidelis, and that's Latin for 'Ever faithful,'" he explained.

"Oh, I did not know that!"

"Have you had a pleasant journey?" he inquired.

"Indeed I have! You have been so very kind to me!"

"Oh, that's nothing! I like to have someone to talk to. Well," as the train slowed into the station, "here we are at last!"

He assisted Marigold to alight. The little girl's heart beat fast as she looked around, to see if her aunts had come to meet her. In a few minutes a tall woman, neatly attired in black, came to her side, and touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"Are you Miss Marigold Holcroft?" the stranger asked.

"Yes. You—you are not my aunt?" Marigold answered doubtfully.

"Certainly not!" was the quick reply, spoken in rather sharp tones. "I am your aunts' maid, and they have sent me to meet you. What luggage have you brought?"

"Only one, box."

"Well, little missy, seeing you're in safe keeping, I'll say good-bye," Farmer Jo put in at this point.

"Good-bye!" Marigold answered, as she clasped his great hand between her two small palms, feeling as though she was parting from a real friend. "Good-bye! When I write to mother I shall tell her what good care you took of me, and how very, very kind you have been!"

"No matter! no matter!" he responded hastily. "I am glad we happened to meet, though!"

The little girl gazed after his big tweed-clad figure as it disappeared in the crowd with a sinking heart and a quivering lip; then she obediently followed her aunts' maid, and having claimed her box, they passed out of the railway station, and entering the first cab at hand, were driven away.

[CHAPTER III]

MARIGOLD MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF HER AUNTS

"MARY, you fidget me by continually getting up and going to the window to look-out. Pray curb your impatience."

Miss Pamela Holcroft spoke with considerable sharpness, and laid down her woolwork to look severely at her elder sister. A very handsome woman still, in spite of her sixty-five years, was Miss Pamela, tall and commanding in figure, with a clearly cut, colourless face, framed by snowy hair that was dressed high on the top of her head. Her eyes were large, dark, and piercing, and gave one the impression that they were always trying to find out people's weaknesses and bad qualities.

Miss Holcroft was quite an old woman, many years above seventy, in fact. She was shorter and stouter than her sister, and less dignified in manner. She wore her white hair in little corkscrew curls, her dark eyes were soft and gentle, and her countenance was set in good-tempered lines. At the present moment she was smiling brightly.

"I cannot help feeling impatient," she said, in answer to her sister's reproof, "and I know you are really as anxious to see the child as I am, though you do not acknowledge it. I should have liked to have gone to the station myself, but as you would send Barker—"

"Which was the wiser plan," Miss Pamela interposed. "You are so fussy, Mary!"

"Fussy!"

For a moment the elder lady looked indignant, but after a moment's reflection she smiled again.

"I wonder if she will be like her father, Pamela! I hope so! Marigold! It is a sweet name, I think!"

"A most absurd one!" Miss Pamela exclaimed. "No doubt the mother chose it! Marigold, indeed!"

"Well, well," in conciliatory tones, "I have an idea she will be a nice little girl. I cannot help feeling we have undertaken a very great responsibility in removing the child from her mother's care, and I hope God will guide us how to bring her up so that she may become a good woman. I trust she will prove docile and sweet-tempered."

"Her father was both; but, of course, she may take after her mother!"

"I liked the tone of her mother's letters, and I sometimes think we may have been prejudiced against her. You know I always thought dear Rupert acted impulsively and without consideration, rather than with any idea of disrespect to us. If you had allowed him to explain—"

"We do not want to go over old ground, Mary. Is not that a cab coming?"

"Yes, and it is stopping here! Oh, the child has arrived! See! Barker is helping her out! Oh, what a thin, pale, little creature she looks! She sees us watching! Oh, Pamela, do let us go into the hall to meet her!"

"No. Sit down, Mary!" Miss Pamela said, in the tones of command that her sister never thought of disobeying. "Barker will bring her in presently."

Miss Holcroft sank into a chair with a sigh of disappointment, and waited impatiently enough till there was a knock at the drawing-room door. Miss Pamela answered: "Come in!" and then Barker's voice announced: "Miss Marigold Holcroft!"

Marigold advanced towards her aunts timidly, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes. It was Miss Holcroft who, rising quickly, took the little trembling figure in her arms and gave her a welcoming kiss.

"I am very glad to see you, my dear," she said heartily, "and I hope you will have a happy home with us."

"Thank you," Marigold answered. She gave a quick look at the kind old face, and then returned the caress, feeling that here was one who meant to be her friend.

Miss Pamela now came forward to greet her niece, but her stiff manner repelled the child, and the cold, clear tones of her voice struck chill on her sensitive heart. It seemed to Marigold that those piercing dark eyes were looking her through and through, and she felt restive under their steady gaze.

"There is a look of our nephew about her, I think," Miss Pamela remarked to her sister. "Do you not see it? She has his eyes."

"Yes," Miss Holcroft agreed, "I saw that at once. Are you considered like your father, my dear?"

"Mother says we are all three like him, and she is very glad."

A distinct look of approval was visible on both aunts' faces.

"Sit down, Marigold," Miss Holcroft said; "you must be tired after your long journey. You know which is which of us, I suppose? My sister is Aunt Pamela, and I am Aunt Mary!"

"Yes," the little girl answered smiling, "I thought so!"

"They will miss you at home," Miss Holcroft continued. "What will your brothers do, now they have lost you for a playfellow?"

"The boys are at school most of the day," Marigold responded, "but mother—she will miss me dreadfully!"

There was a break in her voice as she spoke, and the ready tears welled into her eyes again. Miss Pamela shot a scathing glance at her sister, which was met by one of pure bewilderment. With the best intentions in the world, Miss Holcroft was a decidedly tactless person, and to remind Marigold how she would be missed at home was certainly unwise. Miss Pamela rang the bell, and told the parlour-maid to take Miss Marigold to her room.

"We shall have tea in about half an hour," she explained to the little girl, "so you will have plenty of time to remove the traces of your journey. Barker shall unpack your box for you by and by."

Marigold found a bright, sunny bedroom had been allotted to her, out of the window of which she had an excellent view of all the other houses in the crescent. She turned approving eyes upon the pretty brass bed with its chintz curtains, and the suite of white enamelled furniture looking so dainty and fresh, and evidently arranged with an eye to comfort as well as elegance. Close to the window was a small writing-table, on which stood a glass vase containing a bunch of white violets. It was altogether the prettiest bedroom Marigold had ever seen, she thought, as she mentally compared it with her little cupboard of a room at home.

Presently Barker came to her assistance, and brushed the dust from her blue serge frock, and proceeded to comb her hair. Marigold felt shy and uncomfortable, for she was accustomed to wait on herself, and Barker's face, as reflected by the glass on the dressing-table, was grim and unsmiling.

She was a plain-faced woman of about forty, and had been with her present mistresses for many years. Truth to tell, she did not approve of the new arrival, for she was not fond of children, and was anything but pleased to find she would be expected to assist Marigold in her toilette if necessary. She had yet to discover how few services at her hands the little girl would require.

"Thank you," Marigold said, with a sense of relief, when Barker had at last tied back her hair with its dark blue ribbon. "I am very much obliged to you."

"There's the tea-bell, miss!" Barker exclaimed. "You'd best make haste down, for the ladies don't like to be kept waiting. Come, I'll show you the room."

Marigold followed Barker downstairs and into the dining-room, where Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela were already seated at the large square table that occupied the centre of the room, the latter with the tea-tray in front of her.

"You will sit here at my left hand," Miss Pamela told Marigold; "that will be your place at mealtimes. We breakfast at eight, dine at half-past one, and partake of tea at five o'clock punctually. My sister and I have our supper at nine, but that is too late for you. I shall expect you to be in bed every night by nine o'clock, so you will find your supper ready for you an hour earlier. We are simple folks, and never dine late. What are you saying Mary?"

"I was remarking that Marigold must be hungry, Pamela."

"No, not very," Marigold answered. "I had some Banbury cakes in the train. There was a gentleman in the same carriage with me who was so kind, and he would make me have them."

"That was thoughtful of him," Miss Holcroft said.

"Did he get out at Exeter?" Miss Pamela asked.

"Yes, Aunt Pamela. He lives near here. He said his name was Joseph Adams, and that his friends called him 'Farmer Jo!'"

Miss Pamela's lips took a scornful curve, and she raised her eyebrows. Marigold flushed.

"He was so very kind to me," she said hastily. "I am sure he must be a good man."

Miss Pamela did not seem to think this statement required any answer, and there was a brief silence, daring which Marigold glanced around the room. The furniture of solid mahogany was heavy and handsome, the carpet rich and soft, and the walls were hung with oil paintings. The silver on the sideboard was massive and finely chased. Everything bespoke wealth and plenty. Marigold felt as though she must be dreaming, and that presently she would find herself in the little sitting-room at home with its cheap wall-paper, and thin, faded carpet. She awoke from her reverie with a start, as Miss Holcroft addressed her—

"So you have never been to school, Marigold?"

"Never, Aunt Mary."

"We are thinking of sending you to a day-school after Easter," Miss Pamela broke in; "I fear your education has been sadly neglected."

"Mother taught me all I know," the little girl explained. "She says she does not think I am backward for my age; but, of course, she could not spare much time to teach me, with all the housework to do, and—"

"But have you not a servant?" Miss Holcroft asked, in accents of surprise.

"No, Aunt Mary. Our home is only a workman's flat. Mother and I used to do the cleaning and cooking, and now she will have to do it all by herself—Rupert says he will help though; I am forgetting! Then mother has her needlework to do besides!"

"Needlework?"

"Yes. She sells it to a shop—"

Marigold paused abruptly, conscious of the astonishment and disapproval on her aunts' countenances. Miss Pamela was the first to speak—

"I never imagined our nephew's widow could have fallen so low as that!" she exclaimed.

The hot, angry colour rushed to Marigold's face, flooding it from brow to chin. She was about to make a passionate retort, when she caught an appealing glance from Miss Holcroft, and the words died on her lips. Already she had forgotten her mother's warning, and nearly allowed her unruly tongue to have its way.

"Mother has not fallen low," she said gently, when she had sufficiently overcome her wrath to choose what her reply should be; "I don't think you quite understand, Aunt Pamela. Mother has to work because father had not enough money to give her when he died to keep us all. Mother says we need not be ashamed of being poor; and God helps those who try to do their best!"

"Yes, yes, so He does," Miss Holcroft put in hastily. "I believe in the old proverb: 'God helps those who help themselves.' It is very true."

As Marigold ate her tea, her eyes kept wandering to the wall opposite where she was seated, to an oil painting that represented a little curly-haired boy who appeared to her to bear a strong likeness to her brother Rupert. At last, seeing Miss Pamela noticed what was attracting her attention, she ventured to ask who was the original of the picture.

"That was your father at ten years old," Miss Pamela answered; "and a very good likeness it was considered."

"Oh!" Marigold exclaimed, with excitement in her tones. "It is exactly like our Rupert at home!"

A slight smile crossed Miss Pamela's face, and was gone in an instant; but Marigold had noticed it, and it emboldened her to add—

"Mother says Rupert is the living image of father."

"Then he must be a very handsome boy," Miss Holcroft declared.

"And he is a very good boy too!" the little girl cried, anxious to make an impression in her brother's favour; "and so clever!"

After the meal was over, Marigold accompanied her aunts to the drawing-room, and sat with her hands folded in her lap whilst Miss Pamela talked to her, saying she hoped she meant to be a good girl, and do her best to please them.

"Indeed I will try, Aunt Pamela," she answered earnestly.

"You will find us strict and particular in many ways; but it is our desire that you should be happy with us. Your father had a very happy boyhood, he always said, and I believe he spoke truly. You cannot remember him, I suppose?"

"I do just remember him, but that is all."

"He was a noble boy! Mary and I were proud of him!"

"We were indeed!" Miss Holcroft agreed.

"Oh, please, Aunt Pamela," Marigold said hastily, "mother told me to ask you if you would be good enough to let her know I had arrived safely."

"I should have done so if you had not mentioned it," Miss Pamela answered. "Have you any message to send?"

"Please give her my love—nothing else, thank you."

The letter was written and sent to post. Marigold was allowed to remain idle that first evening, and she sat watching Miss Pamela busily employed with woolwork, with a sense of unreality upon her. Miss Holcroft took some needlework too, but she continually put it down to scan her little niece's features afresh, and smile upon her with such evident goodwill that Marigold's heart could not but feel less lonely. Yet, when she lay down in her pretty chintz-covered bed that night, and thought longingly of her mother and brothers, the tears would come, and painful sobs shook her slender form.

"Oh, to be back with her dear ones once more! To feel the clasp of loving arms, the touch of loving lips! Were they thinking of her at this moment, saying: I wonder how Marigold is getting on, and if she misses us much!"

She felt she had never known how much she loved them till now. Oh, it was hard that she should have had to leave them; it seemed a little unkind her mother should have insisted on sending her away. But no, that was a wrong thought. Mother knew what was best.

Marigold tried to cease crying; she buried her face in the soft, downy pillow, and finally succeeded in stopping her sobs. Then she prayed to God to take care of her dear ones, and to help her to do what was right in His sight, till at length a feeling of comfort and peace stole over her aching heart, and she fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.

[CHAPTER IV]

MARIGOLD'S FIRST DAYS IN HER AUNTS' HOME

MARIGOLD awoke early on the first morning after her arrival at her new home. The bright April sun was shining into her bedroom window from a cloudless blue sky. It was indeed a perfect morning. The little girl jumped out of bed, and drawing up the blind to its fullest height, threw open the window, and stood for a minute or two inhaling the delicate scent of primroses and hyacinths from the garden below. Then she proceeded quickly to dress, wondering what time it was, for she had no watch, and she was fearful lest she should be late for the eight o'clock breakfast. When she was fully dressed she knelt down and said her prayers, asking God's blessing on her new life, and afterwards sat by the open window to read her daily portion from her father's Bible. Downstairs she could hear movements in the house, and presently there was a step outside her bedroom door, followed by a knock on the door itself.

"Come in," said Marigold.

The door opened, and Miss Pamela entered. She looked surprised at the sight of her niece already fully dressed. Marigold put down her Bible on the writing-table, and advancing to her aunt held up her face for a kiss.

"You are up in good time," Miss Pamela remarked, as she lightly touched Marigold's cheek with her lips. "Are you usually such an early riser?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela, I always got up when mother did at home, to dust the sitting-room whilst she cooked the breakfast. But I could not guess the time this morning, and I was afraid of being late."

"I understand. It is now only half-past seven. I came to see if you were awake, and instead I find you up and reading."

Miss Pamela glanced at the Bible on the writing-table, recollection in her look. She took it up after a moment's hesitation, and opening it turned to the flyleaf. After a short silence she said—

"So you have your father's Bible, child?"

"Yes," Marigold answered; "mother gave it to me only the night before last. She said she thought father would wish me to have it."

Miss Pamela stood looking at the Bible thoughtfully. Marigold could not guess that she was recalling the day when she and her sister had given it to their nephew, who had been then a schoolboy, and how Miss Holcroft had begged him to read it.

"I will, Aunt Mary, if only to please you!" he had answered gaily. Later, Miss Pamela knew he had read it to please himself.

She laid the Bible down without further comment upon it, and glanced around the room. "Barker unpacked your box, I suppose? I hope you are a tidy little girl, and keep your things in good order?" she questioned.

"I am afraid I'm not very tidy, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold responded truthfully, blushing at having to make the confession.

"That is a pity. An untidy woman is most objectionable! 'A place for everything and everything in its place,' is an excellent rule. Now, if you are ready, we will go downstairs, and you may assist me to arrange some fresh flowers for the breakfast table."

Marigold followed her aunt with alacrity. At the back of the house was a long garden between high walls, the centre of which was given up to the growth of vegetables, whilst the narrow beds at the sides were devoted to the cultivation of flowers. Marigold uttered a cry of mingled surprise and pleasure when she caught sight of primroses and violets, clumps of golden daffodils and narcissi, forget-me-nots, and virginia stocks and wallflowers bursting into fragrant blossom.

"Oh, Aunt Pamela, what a pretty garden! What lovely flowers!"

Miss Pamela's face showed evident signs of gratification at Marigold's exclamations of admiration. "You like flowers?" she asked, looking with interest at the child's glowing countenance.

"Oh, I love them!"

"Well, then, go and gather a bunch with some lady's grass and southernwood, and afterwards come into the breakfast-room."

Marigold willingly did as she had been told. Miss Pamela arranged the flowers in delicate glass vases for the table, whilst her little niece looked on admiringly, thinking how nice it was to have a beautiful garden, and what a pleasant apartment the breakfast-room was, with its view from the window of apple-trees bursting into bloom, rows of peas and beans appearing above the brown earth, and a profusion of spring flowers.

When Miss Holcroft came down a little later she was pleased to see Marigold looking bright and cheerful, and told her she knew she would be like sunshine in the house. Marigold laughed, and gave the old lady a hearty kiss.

On the whole, Marigold's first day in her new home passed happily enough. In the morning Miss Holcroft took her out shopping; and in the afternoon she went with Miss Pamela to the service at the cathedral.

Like most children brought up in a London suburb, Marigold had seen none of the great buildings, such as St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, that are the pride and glory of our metropolis, and, therefore, when she saw the Exeter Cathedral for the first time, she was much impressed by its age and grandeur. A feeling of awe crept into her heart, and she looked around her with wondering eyes.

She followed her aunt into the sacred building with hushed, reverent footsteps, and entered with pleasure into the service. How grand it all was! The sunshine glinting through the richly coloured windows, the finely trained voices of the choir led in the treble parts by one clear boy's voice sweeter and higher than the rest.

The anthem that afternoon was taken from the twenty-fourth Psalm—

"'Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting

doors; and the King of glory shall come in.'"

"'Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord

mighty in battle.'"

Marigold's heart swelled with an exultant feeling as she listened entranced.

Then came the question again—

"'Who is this King of glory?'"—and the triumphant reply—"'The Lord

of hosts, He is the King of glory.'"

A sob burst from Marigold's lips, and tears rushed to her eyes, her pleasure approached so near to pain.

When the service was over she followed her aunt into the sunshine again, and Miss Pamela glanced with a little surprise at her flushed cheeks and shining eyes as she inquired—

"Did you like it, Marigold?"

"Oh, it was lovely, Aunt Pamela! I never heard such singing before!"

"Very likely not. Your father loved the service at the cathedral too. At one time we thought he might choose to be a clergyman, but his father and grandfather were soldiers, and it seemed only natural he should follow in their footsteps. A good soldier is often a good Christian, I have noticed."

Marigold thought of her father's motto, and agreed.

The little girl soon fell into the ways of her new home. At first she felt unsettled and unhappy, missed her mother and the boys more than she ever owned, and stood in fear of Miss Pamela. But after a time she grew less homesick, and discovered that though Miss Pamela was cold and undemonstrative in her manner, yet she was not unkind, and desired to make her niece really happy.

Miss Holcroft Marigold had loved from the first. Everyone liked the gentle, good-hearted old lady whose quiet, uneventful life had been spent in trying to make others better and happier. Many were the tales of sin and grief that were poured into her ears from time to time, many were the sorrows she alleviated, and the tears she dried. Often she was imposed upon; often, it is to be feared, she wasted her sympathy upon unworthy objects; but the thought that she had perhaps refrained from giving assistance where it was needed would have haunted her, and she was consequently often reproved by Miss Pamela for being too easily led.

By her elder aunt Marigold's coming had been hailed with delight and keenest pleasure. She had longed to know her late nephew's widow and children, though she had but rarely dared to hint as much to her sister, and in welcoming Marigold she had been so genuinely pleased and glad to see her, that the child had recognised her feelings with a grateful heart.

Marigold soon began to understand that it was wiser not to speak much of her mother in the presence of her two aunts, for if she did so Miss Holcroft always looked anxious and uneasy, whilst Miss Pamela's face would grow sterner and colder than before, and she would pointedly turn the conversation. So the little girl dropped the habit of saying, "Mother says," as she had been accustomed to do, and if she ever mentioned the dearly loved name it was with a new, strange timidity. How she looked forward to her mother's letters! How she read them again and again, shedding tears over them one minute, and smiling the next! Mrs. Holcroft wrote charming letters, full of all the trifling details of home life that she knew would interest her little daughter, about the boys, her own work, and the people of their acquaintance. On one occasion Miss Holcroft came upon her when she was reading one of these letters, and some kindly impulse made the old lady lay her hand upon the child's shoulder with a caressing touch and inquire—

"Are your mother and brothers well, my dear? Have you good news from home?"

"Oh yes, thank you," the little girl replied, lifting a pair of shining, happy eyes to her aunt's face. Then she added hesitatingly, "Mother has written such a nice letter. I wonder if you would like to see it? Oh yes, I really mean it!"

Miss Holcroft took the proffered letter, and putting on her spectacles perused it slowly from beginning to end. When she returned it to Marigold she simply remarked—

"I hope your mother would not mind my seeing it. It has interested me very much."

She did not explain that it had interested her in the writer; but, after that day, Marigold understood that her Aunt Mary bore no ill-will to her mother, whatever Aunt Pamela might feel.

Easter fell about the middle of April that year. It had been decided that at the commencement of the summer term, in the first week of May, Marigold was to attend a day-school not far distant from Powderham Crescent.

"I hope you will be a good girl, and work hard to get on," Miss Pamela told her. "We wish you to have a good education to fit you for your position in life."

"I will try my hardest to learn all I can," Marigold responded earnestly.

"You will doubtless make friends at school," Miss Pamela continued, "and I hope you will have the good sense to choose them for more lasting qualities than those that usually attract youthful minds. You are unaccustomed to the companionship of other girls, and I warn you not to form rash opinions about your schoolfellows, but to select your friends with caution."

"I will remember what you say, Aunt Pamela," the little girl said, feeling somewhat puzzled. "Is it a large school where I am going?"

"There are between thirty and forty pupils, I believe. The principal, Miss Hardcastle, is a remarkably clever woman, and she is assisted by a staff of well-trained governesses, with visiting masters for music, and the higher branches of mathematics. Girls are expected to study subjects nowadays which were considered unnecessary when I was young; so you will have to work hard, if you mean to become a clever woman!"

To become a clever woman so that she should be able to earn her own living and assist her mother, was Marigold's one ambition, and she made up her mind to exert herself as much as possible, and do her very best.

Marigold had already been to the afternoon service at the cathedral with one or the other of her aunts on several occasions, but she had never once caught sight of Farmer Jo, although she had always looked about, in hopes of seeing him.

At last, one Friday afternoon as she was leaving the cathedral with Miss Holcroft, she saw a large tweed-clad figure in front, in company with a little old lady clad in an old-fashioned brown silk gown. Acting on the impulse of the moment, and much to her aunt's surprise, she darted on ahead and caught up to them.

"How do you do, Mr. Adams?" she cried, in glad tones. "Oh, how glad I am I happened to see you!"

"What!" exclaimed Farmer Jo, in his loud, hearty voice. "It's never the little maid I travelled down from London with! Why, it is! Now, this is a pleasure!"

He took her hand and shook it heartily, then introduced his mother, who was the very opposite to her son in every way, being small and thin, with merry brown eyes like a bird's.

"I suppose you have been to the cathedral too," the old lady said, smiling. "My son and I generally attend the afternoon service on Fridays. We think it a rare treat, don't we, Jo?"

"That we do, mother!"

"It's so quiet and peaceful there, it makes one think of heaven," she continued.

"So it does, so it does," her son agreed.

"I am always grateful to those who gave us our cathedral. How they must have loved God, to have built such a place to His glory! I always feel that when I look at the carving, and—"

She paused, suddenly conscious of the approach of Miss Holcroft. A shyness seemed to come over mother and son, the former made a low, old-fashioned courtesy, the latter took off his hat, and they passed on arm-in-arm.

"Marigold!" said Miss Holcroft, in a horrified tone of voice, "who are those odd-looking people?"

The little girl explained. She was a trifle uneasy, perhaps she had not behaved rightly; perhaps Aunt Mary would be angry at being left in such an unceremonious fashion, and would tell Aunt Pamela, who had looked so scornful on the night of her arrival when she had spoken of Farmer Jo. But Miss Holcroft was not angry, though she had been a little shocked to see Marigold running after two complete strangers, as she had imagined.

"You should have waited and explained the matter to me, Marigold," she said; "had you done so, I could have spoken to them myself, and thanked the gentleman for his kindness to you in the train."

"Oh, Aunt Mary, I see now that is what I ought to have done! I acted without thinking! I am so sorry!"

"Never mind, my dear. Perhaps we may see them again some day, and then you can introduce me to them properly. Mother and son, you say? Dear me! He is so big, and she is such a tiny woman!"

Marigold dreaded what Miss Pamela would say when her sister told her of the encounter with Farmer Jo and his mother, but apparently the incident had not made so great an impression on Miss Holcroft's mind as on Marigold's, for the former did not revert to it again for some days to come. Meanwhile, the time was drawing near when Marigold was to make another important step in life, and go to school. Her mother wrote warning her of fresh trials and temptations that would cross her path, and begging her to remember her father's motto always. Marigold did remember it, but perhaps it was not unnatural that she did not realise how hard it might be for her to fight the good fight of Faith that hitherto had not been fraught with many difficulties, with her mother's cheering presence and her mother's loving care as bulwarks of strength, always at hand.

[CHAPTER V]

MARIGOLD'S UNTIDINESS, A MEETING WITH FARMER JO

AND HIS MOTHER, AND A VISIT TO THE LACE-MAKER

"MARIGOLD, I have this minute come from your bedroom, where I was greatly annoyed at the sight of your personal belongings strewed in every direction. I opened your set of drawers, and they were in a state of disorder; your towels had fallen on the floor, or perhaps you had thrown them there—"

"Oh, Aunt Pamela, I am so sorry—"

"You are a very untidy little girl, I regret to say," Miss Pamela continued severely, "and I am grieved to see it. Go upstairs at once, and set your room in order. Next week you will be at school, if all's well, when you will have less time on your hands, and if you are so careless you will always be in trouble."

Marigold, who had been reading a story-book whilst she sat by the window in the drawing-room, rose quickly, and with cheeks red with shame ran hastily upstairs. Miss Pamela had not complained without sufficient cause, as Marigold acknowledged when she looked around her pretty bedroom, for her jacket and hat were flung carelessly on a chair; one boot was by the window, the other directly inside the door; and the writing-table was littered with note-paper and envelopes, some of the latter having fallen on the floor.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed Marigold; "no wonder Aunt Pamela looked so dreadfully cross!" She recalled how often her mother had remonstrated with her about her careless, untidy ways. On this occasion she had refrained from putting her room in order before dinner, so that she might have more time to continue reading the story she was so greatly interested in, and afterwards she had gone back to her book, never dreaming that her Aunt Pamela would discover her neglect. She felt very guilty and uneasy, as she hastily set to work to put her garments in their proper places. Before she had quite completed her task, Miss Holcroft came in, her gentle face a little troubled.

"Oh, Marigold, my dear, you must really learn to be more careful," she said. "Pamela is so put out that you left your room in such a state of untidiness, after her impressing upon you how particular she is. Did not your mother teach you to be neat?"

"Oh yes, indeed, Aunt Mary! It is not mother's fault that I am so careless, really it is not! She used to be always telling me about it. You see, we had not much room to spare in our flat, and when I littered the place with my things it made such a muddle!"

"So I should imagine!"

"I wanted to finish the book I was reading," Marigold explained, "and I thought I should be able to put my room tidy by and by."

"That is procrastination. Never put off to a future time what you ought to do in the present."

"I did not think Aunt Pamela would come into my room."

"Ah! You mean you did not think your fault would be found out. You knew you were disobeying our wishes; but it never occurred to you, I suppose, to think that you were not acting quite straight in the matter. Always be true, my dear, and then we shall be able to trust you."

Marigold's eyes filled with tears at the reproof, gently given though it was, and she felt thoroughly ashamed. Her lips trembled as she said in a low voice—

"I am very sorry, Aunt Mary; I am indeed!"

"Be more careful and thoughtful for the future, my dear child. Now, I have come to ask if you would like to go to the cathedral with us this afternoon; both Pamela and I are going, and we thought, as you will be at school next week, that you ought not to miss the opportunity of accompanying us to-day."

"Oh, Aunt Mary, I should like so much to go with you," the little girl replied gladly, her face brightening.

"Well, put on your hat and jacket at once, then, and join us downstairs."

Marigold obeyed with alacrity, and presently sallied forth between her two aunts, reflecting that it was Friday, and therefore very possible that they might see Farmer Jo and his mother. Nor was she disappointed, for again on leaving the cathedral, she espied them in front, arm-in-arm as before.

"Aunt Mary," said Marigold in an excited whisper, "do you notice? There are Farmer Jo and his mother!"

"Yes, so I perceive," Miss Holcroft answered. "Pamela," turning to her sister, "do you see that odd-looking pair?"

Miss Pamela glanced in the direction indicated, and a faint smile crossed her face.

"Certainly I do," she replied, "and I recognise one of them. The old lady is called Mrs. Adams; I met her on one occasion at Mrs. Nowell's."

Mrs. Nowell was the wife of Dr. Nowell, who lived a few houses distant from the Misses Holcroft, in Powderham Crescent.

"Oh, Aunt Pamela," Marigold cried eagerly, "do you mean to say you know Mrs. Adams? That is her son who is with her, and he is the gentleman who was so kind to me in the train!"

"Is he, indeed?" Miss Pamela said, with interest in her tones.

"Do you not think we might speak to them, and thank Mr. Adams for his attention to Marigold?" Miss Holcroft suggested. "As you have met Mrs. Adams at Mrs. Nowell's, it would be but common politeness to acknowledge her son's courtesy to our niece!"

"That is very true; but perhaps she may not remember me."

All doubts on that point, however, were immediately set at rest; for in another moment the little old lady turned around to take a last look at the cathedral, and catching sight of Miss Pamela, a gleam of recognition crossed her face. Miss Pamela hurried forward.

"How do you do, Mrs. Adams? I think we have met at Mrs. Nowell's, have we not? I hope you will introduce me to your son, because my sister and I feel we owe him a debt of gratitude for his goodness to our little niece."

"I'm sure Jo was only glad to be of service, weren't you, Jo?" Mrs. Adams said, appealing to her son.

"That's so, that's so," he answered.

"This is my son, Jo, Miss Holcroft. Jo, you've heard me speak of this lady before."

Miss Pamela explained that her sister was Miss Holcroft. Then Marigold drew forward her Aunt Mary, and they all stood chatting together for several minutes. Farmer Jo's face was redder and more smiling than ever. He beamed on every one with evident goodwill, and was inwardly delighted that his mother appeared to get on with the ladies. Miss Holcroft's gentle face was wreathed with smiles, whilst Miss Pamela, though not so cordial in her manner as her sister, was extremely gracious, for her.

Marigold stood by listening eagerly to the conversation, and was greatly astonished when she heard Miss Pamela give her new acquaintances an invitation to tea.

This, however, was declined for to-day; but Mrs. Adams promised when she paid a visit to her friend, Mrs. Nowell, that she would call on the Misses Holcroft as well.

"Do you like Exeter, little missy?" asked Farmer Jo of Marigold, whilst his mother was talking to her aunts.

"I think so," she responded; but her tone sounded doubtful.

"Are you not sure?" he inquired amusedly.

"Not quite. I love the cathedral, and I have been for some beautiful walks with my aunts into the country; but you see, Mr. Adams, I should like everything so much better if my mother and the boys were here."

"You have brothers, then?"

"Yes, two. They are called Rupert and Lionel. I miss them dreadfully."

"I daresay you do. You are going to live with your aunts, aren't you? Well—well—it will be nice for them to have a young body in the house. It must have been lonely for them before now, I'm sure; but you'll be able to brighten them up! Ah, your mother did not like parting with you, I know!"

"No, but she thought it would be best," Marigold explained.

"Yes," he acquiesced, "best for you. Mothers don't think of themselves."

After that they parted. Farmer Jo and his mother went one way, and the Misses Holcroft with Marigold in the opposite direction.

"I am glad we had an opportunity of thanking Mr. Adams," Miss Holcroft said. "What a strange coincidence that you should have known his mother, Pamela!"

"They are an eccentric couple," her sister responded. "Mrs. Nowell told me about them. They are rich, but live a very simple life on their farm, and seem quite happy and contented with a quiet, uneventful existence. They are extremely generous to those less fortunate than themselves; Mrs. Nowell gave me several instances of their kindliness to others. I took a fancy to the old lady when I first met her."

"I hope we shall see her again," Miss Holcroft said.

"So that is the Farmer Jo you mentioned on the night of your arrival, Marigold," Miss Pamela continued; "I think you were right in your estimate of him, child, for I do not doubt he is a good man."

Marigold smiled and coloured with pleasure, for she was very grateful to Farmer Jo. He had engaged her attention, and had cheered her when she had been sad and low-spirited after her parting from her mother, and she had been terribly afraid that Aunt Pamela would not approve of his big person and loud voice. But Miss Pamela was far more discerning than her little niece realised; those keen eyes of hers, that were so sharp to detect anything false or mean, were not slow to recognise truth and goodness. Mrs. Adams and her son might be peculiar and unusual, but there was about each the stamp of sincerity that Miss Pamela valued above everything.

Miss Holcroft now said she wished to visit someone in her district before returning home; Marigold might accompany her if she wished. The little girl assented willingly, for she had heard her Aunt Mary mention the district where she visited amongst the poor on several occasions, and was curious to see what it was like.

"I am going to see Molly Jenkins," Miss Holcroft explained to her sister. "There is no reason why Marigold should not go with me, is there?"

"No," Miss Pamela agreed; "perhaps Molly will like to see Marigold. I have some shopping I wish to do this afternoon, so I will not bear you company any farther."

"Very well, Pamela. Now then, Marigold, we must go this way."

Marigold tripped along lightly by her Aunt Mary's side, her bright eyes noting all that came within their reach. They were evidently coming to a poorer part of the city, for the shops were much smaller, and presently they turned down a narrow back street.

"My district is here," Miss Holcroft explained. "It used to be a fashionable part of Exeter. Can you fancy that?"

Marigold noticed, to her surprise, that here and there were large, old-fashioned houses, evidently once of importance, but now, for the most part, neglected, and some even fallen to decay. Slatternly women and children hovered around the doors; and occasionally a face would brighten at the sight of Miss Holcroft, whilst she would pause to say a few pleasant words to a mother with a sickly-looking baby in her arms, and listen patiently to the tale of woe that said how the husband was out of work "on account of the drink, ma'am," and how the children had to be sent to school half-fed. Marigold had been accustomed to live amongst working people all her life, but they had been respectable mechanics and artisans, not those who, though of the working-class, did very little work at all. She had never been in contact with men who spent their days loafing at the corners of streets with their hands in their pockets, women gossiping and remarking on the passers-by, and little children so dirty that she instinctively drew away from them half in pity, half in disgust.

"Oh, Aunt Mary, what a miserable part this is!" she cried.

"Yes," Miss Holcroft acknowledged with a sigh, "it is one of the most wretched districts in Exeter. Strangers who visit our beautiful cathedral town little think that there are such miserable parts hidden away in the heart of the city!"

"Are the people who live here very wicked, Aunt Mary?"

"Some are, I fear,—fathers who spend the little money they earn in drink, and mothers who neglect their children and homes for the sake of the same vice. But, my dear, not all are bad. God has His faithful servants here, His jewels whose lustre no evil surroundings can dim, whose goodness but shines brighter in contrast to the sin around. You heard me say I was going to see Molly Jenkins? Well, she is a poor lame girl who makes Honiton lace for a livelihood. She cannot move without crutches, and rarely goes out except to take her work to the shop where she sells it, and yet she is one of the brightest souls I know!"

"Oh, I should like to see her work so much, Aunt Mary!" Marigold exclaimed, her tones full of eager interest, as her thoughts flew to her mother. The little girl's heart swelled at the remembrance. It seemed so unjust that she should be living in affluence whilst her dear mother was toiling hard to keep the home.

"Here we are," Miss Holcroft said, at length, as she paused before a large house that once, no doubt, had been a handsome residence. The front door stood open, and Marigold followed her aunt up the steps into a spacious hall, and from thence up a flight of broad stairs. The house that had fallen from its former glory so far as to be let in tenements to half a dozen different families was a high one, and they had to climb to the top storey to reach their destination. Then Miss Holcroft knocked at a door, and a bright, clear voice bade them—"Come in!"

They entered a large lofty room with two windows, in front of one of which was seated a girl about seventeen or eighteen years of age. Before her, on a small table, rested a cushion such as is generally used by lace-makers, and over which she had been bending at work on the delicate fabric that her fingers so deftly manufactured. She rose as her visitors entered, and leaning on her crutches crossed the room to meet them. Marigold saw her figure was thin and twisted; but her face was really beautiful, with large grey eyes and pale, delicate features.

"I have brought my little niece to make your acquaintance, Molly," Miss Holcroft said, in her pleasant voice. "You are much interested in needlework, are you not, Marigold?"

"Yes," Marigold answered, "indeed I am. May I look at what you have been doing, please?"

Colouring with pleasure, the lame girl spread before Marigold's admiring eyes about a dozen sprigs of lace similar to the piece she had on her cushion.

"They are ordered for a bridal veil," she explained.

"Oh, how lovely!" Marigold cried. "I never saw anything so beautiful before."

"They are indeed beautiful," Miss Holcroft said. "I hope you will get a good sum for these delicate roses."

"Yes, Miss Holcroft, I am pleased to say I shall. My good friend of whom I have told you, the vicar's wife at home, got this order for me direct. I am to put in my best work, and charge what I think a fair price."

Miss Holcroft nodded approvingly, for she knew how badly lace-workers are paid as a rule.

Molly was genuinely delighted to see her visitors. She pointed out the view from the windows to Marigold, where beyond the chimney-tops could be seen pleasant fields, and hills dotted with green woods.

"The stairs are rather a trial to me, sometimes," she said, smiling, "but to be high up above the squalor of the street makes up for that, in my opinion. I always think I can smell the flowers in the fields yonder whilst I sit by the window working, and that keeps me in good spirits."

"I think this is a delightful room," Marigold remarked, "it is so sunny!"

"Yes. In summer it is rather too hot, though, because it is close to the roof; but I like to hear the sparrows twittering under the eaves, and to watch them bringing hay and dried grass to make their nests. I should miss the birds if I lived on the ground floor!"

"I think you're the most contented person I ever met, Molly!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed.

"God has given me so many blessings," the lame girl responded, "that it would be a shame if I was discontented. When I compare my lot to others in this very house, I see how much I have to be thankful for!"

[CHAPTER VI]

THE LACE-MAKER'S STORY, AND MARIGOLD'S

CONFIDENCES WITH BARKER

MARIGOLD was sorry when she and her Aunt Mary at last said good-bye to Molly Jenkins, for she had been deeply interested in the lame girl's work and conversation. She was silent for a while as she walked soberly along by Miss Holcroft's side, and it was not until they had left the poorer parts of the city behind them that she began asking questions.

"Does Molly Jenkins live there all by herself, Aunt Mary?" she inquired.

"No, my dear. She has an old father who shares her home with her. She has unfortunately to support him as well as herself, and that keeps her poor."

Miss Holcroft was silent a moment, then she resumed—

"You are old enough, I think, Marigold, to know something of the suffering that sin brings as its companion. There was never wrong done without someone having to smart for it, and often an innocent person. I will tell you the history of Molly Jenkins as an example, and then you will see what I mean. Her father was a farmer in the north of Devon, and her mother died when she was an infant. The times for farmers were hard, crops failed, and there was great agricultural depression generally, so that Mr. Jenkins lost a lot of money, and unhappily took to drink. He was always very fond of his little daughter, and would nurse her on his knee, and play with her by the hour; but one day he came home in a state of intoxication, and let the poor child fall from his arms to the ground, laming her for life."

"Oh, Aunt Mary, how awful!" Marigold cried, in horrified accents.

"Awful indeed! One would have imagined having done his child such a terrible injury would have made the wretched father forswear drink for ever, but such was not the case. Of course, he was dreadfully shocked, but he did not give up the vice that had taken such firm hold upon him. Poor Molly suffered a great deal, and could not go to school like other children. She would have grown up utterly neglected and uneducated but for the wife of the vicar of the parish, who not only taught her to read and write, and lent her books, but paid for her being taught the art of making Honiton lace, that she might have the means of earning her own living. The vicar's wife was a poor woman herself, I have been told, and therefore her treatment of her little lame neighbour was all the kinder and more praiseworthy on that account. She used to keep poultry, and sell the garden produce at the nearest market town, and in that way add to her husband's slender income; but, you see, she did not begrudge her time or her hardly earned money to the girl who had no claim on her. I do not doubt that He who loves a cheerful giver will reward her for what she did, and she has the satisfaction of knowing that Molly Jenkins is really grateful to her."

Miss Holcroft's gentle face beamed brightly, and Marigold looked up at her with an answering smile, for the two were beginning to understand each other well.

"I have often noticed that there is a great difference in money," Miss Holcroft continued reflectively; "some seems to carry a blessing with it, and some a curse! Money made in evil ways soon wears out; it is never any lasting good to anyone. Whereas, one sometimes sees the little that has been honestly earned doing incalculable good. I have a fancy that the spirit of the giver has a great deal to do with the value of the gift. However, to return to Molly Jenkins. Her father grew more and more careless about his farm, and neglected his work worse than ever as time went on, till at last the inevitable crash came. There was but little money for his creditors, and when the farm-stock and household furniture were sold to help pay the rent that was long overdue, they removed to Exeter to the home where I took you just now. That was two years ago, and since then Molly has supported her father and herself by her lace-work. He is a great trouble to her, and I fear will be a greater in the future, for he is fast becoming a broken-down old man, and if he earns a little money he is certain to spend it in drink."

"What a very sad story, Aunt Mary! I wonder how that poor girl manages to look so bright and cheerful!"

"It is because she trusts in Him who will never fail her. She has learnt to go to Him for strength in her weakness, and she knows He will not put upon her more than she can bear."

"What a wicked old man her father must be!" Marigold cried indignantly.

"Weak and selfish he is, no doubt, but Molly loves him, and has hopes even now of reclaiming him from his sin. Oh, it is a sad case!"

"I wish mother could have seen that beautiful lace; she understands about all kinds of work, you know. When I write I must tell her about that poor lame girl, for she will be so interested. I do wish mother could get her some orders!"

"Do you think that is possible?" Miss Holcroft asked.

"I don't know, Aunt Mary; but when I write to her next I will ask her. Mother has a few private customers herself, and perhaps they might be glad to hear of someone who can make Honiton lace so beautifully as Molly Jenkins."

"The work is not so well paid for as it should be. Since machine-made lace has come into general use, and can be bought so cheaply, the lace-makers have had a bad time. I remember when I was young, even little children used to be seen sitting outside the cottage doors in the villages about here with their lace cushions on their laps."

"Oh, do you think I could learn to make Honiton lace, Aunt Mary?" Marigold asked eagerly.

"I have no doubt you could; but it strikes me you will have plenty of other work to do shortly, so that your time will be fully occupied."

"Yes," the little girl agreed; "I mean to work so hard at school."

On her arrival at home Marigold found a letter from her mother awaiting her. "Such a dear, dear letter!" she whispered to herself, as she sat by her bedroom window, reading how they were all well at home, and how much they had been interested in hearing about her new life at Exeter. Rupert was to be raised to a higher form at school this term; he was such a good, thoughtful boy, and helped his mother all he could. "Not, of course, that he can take your place, my dear little daughter," wrote Mrs. Holcroft. "I miss you every hour and minute of the day, but I am grateful to your aunts for their kindness to you, and it makes me very happy to think that you are going to school next week. You will learn much that I was unable to teach you; but there is one lesson I wish to impress upon your mind, that I hope you will ever remember before all else: 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom: a good understanding have all they that do His commandments.' My little girl must never forget that."

Marigold went downstairs to tea with smiling lips and bright eyes. Miss Holcroft looked at her kindly, for she guessed the cause of the child's happy face; but it was otherwise with Miss Pamela, who had cherished her dislike for Marigold's mother so many years that she had become perfectly incapable of thinking of her without prejudice. Miss Pamela would have liked nothing so well as to be enabled to break the strong tie between mother and daughter; although she had given permission for Marigold to write herself, and receive letters from her home, she nevertheless hoped that in time the communications would gradually shorten, and perhaps ultimately drop altogether. Upon most points the younger Miss Holcroft showed great common sense, but where her late nephew's widow was concerned she seemed utterly incapable of judging fairly, and was obstinately determined to keep her at a distance.

"Did you see Molly's father?" Miss Pamela asked, as she poured out the tea.

"No; he was evidently from home," Miss Holcroft responded; "and I could not help feeling relieved at his absence. Molly was looking as bright as ever; she seemed in very good spirits, and was busy at work on some beautiful sprigs of rose-buds for a bridal veil. Marigold was much interested in Molly; were you not, my dear?"

"Oh yes, indeed I was," the little girl answered. "I never saw anything so lovely as her lace-work."

"Molly is an artist to her finger-tips," Miss Pamela said; "and she is a good girl too! Go to see her what time of the day you like, you will always find her sitting-room the picture of neatness!"

Marigold hung her head and blushed, for she rightly guessed this remark was intended as a reflection on her own untidy ways. She felt her Aunt Pamela's eyes were upon her, and her guilty confusion was intensified when she looked up and met her cold glance. "Aunt Pamela, I understand what you mean," she said at length. "You were quite right about my room this afternoon, and I know it was wrong of me to leave it like that. I hope I shall not be so untidy again!"

"I hope not, Marigold!"

"I behaved very badly, because I knew my room was in a dreadful muddle," the little girl continued. "I wanted to finish the book I was reading, and I did not think you would go into my room and see how untidy it was. It was very wrong of me, though I never thought about it at the time. I am very sorry, indeed I am!" There were tears in Marigold's eyes as she made her confession, and expressed her sense of contrition, and Miss Pamela's face softened as she listened.

"You will be more careful for the future, will you not, Marigold?" Miss Holcroft interposed, her kind voice sounding a trifle anxious.

"Oh, I will, I will!"

"That being the case, and seeing you really regret your fault, we will say no more about it," Miss Pamela said. "Untidiness is a bad habit, and a difficult one to break off. Your father as a boy was inclined to be very careless, but when he went to boarding-school he was glad that we had insisted on his keeping his things in their right places, and also that we had taught him the advantages of punctuality. I have heard it said that the Duke of Wellington attributed his successes to the fact that he was always in time. I can well understand that disorder and confusion must be distasteful to a great mind."

After tea Marigold slipped upstairs to read her mother's letter again; and whilst she was in the midst of it Barker came in, bearing an armful of clean clothes that had been brought home from the laundry.

"Shall I put your things away for you, miss?" she asked.

"Oh, you need not trouble, thank you, Barker; lay them on the bed, and I'll see to them directly." But Barker still lingered.

"I think I heard you speaking of a Mrs. Adams to Miss Holcroft," she remarked, with curiosity in her tones. "Is it the little old lady who is so friendly with Mrs. Nowell?"

"Yes;" Marigold replied. "Do you know her, Barker?"

"No, miss. But I've heard a deal about her from my mother, who lived with her as a servant—oh, I don't know how many years ago! Mrs. Adams was a young woman then, and mother couldn't have been much older than her mistress."

"Is your mother still alive?" Marigold inquired, with interest in her voice.

"Yes, miss; though she's getting up in years now."

"Oh, do tell me about her, Barker!"

Barker smiled, and it was wonderful how a smile changed her usually grim face, and gave it a comeliness Marigold had never thought it could wear.

"There's not much to tell," she answered. "Mother lives in an almshouse, and has everything she wants. She says her old age is the happiest, most comfortable time she has known; and I daresay she's right, for she had a long family to provide for and put out in the world as best she could. Father died, and left her with seven children; but she'd a brave heart of her own, had mother, and she worked hard to bring us up respectably."

"Why, that is like my mother, only there are but three of us instead of seven!" Marigold cried.

Then she was encouraged by Barker's face to tell her about her own dear mother, and was surprised how sympathetic and interested her aunts' maid seemed to be. They had quite an animated conversation together, and in one half hour Barker learnt more about Marigold and her London home than she had discovered in the weeks they had spent under the same roof.

"How you must miss your brothers!" Barker remarked at length. "Ah! It must be dull for you here after living with young folks. I'm glad you're going to school, Miss Marigold, for I daresay you'll soon make friends there. Well, I must get about my work, or I shall be behind-hand, and I've all the household linen to put away."

Whereupon Barker took her departure reluctantly, for she had been much interested in what Marigold had said about her mother and the boys; whilst Marigold's mind had fresh food for reflection in thinking of Barker's old mother and Barker herself, who was a much pleasanter person than the little girl had thought.

[CHAPTER VII]

MARIGOLD'S FIRST DAYS AT SCHOOL, AND HER

ENCOUNTER WITH MURIEL WAKE

MARIGOLD commenced her school-days with a buoyant heart, and a desire to please Miss Hardcastle and the governesses. The principal was a clever, clear-sighted woman, a splendid manager and disciplinarian, who ruled her school with an iron hand, yet with such tact and skill that she was much liked and respected by parents, teachers, and pupils. She was a small woman, with a quiet manner, and a persuasive voice; but there was a dignity about her that never failed to command obedience, and the threat, "You shall be sent to Miss Hardcastle to be dealt with as she thinks fit,"—was sufficient to subdue the spirit of the most refractory scholar.

Marigold found herself classed with a dozen girls about her own age, under the charge of a governess named Miss Smith. The little girl was relieved to find that she was not behind the others in general knowledge. She read and wrote well, was quick at arithmetic, and had been well grounded in grammar, geography, and English history. The subjects her mother had instructed her in had been taught thoroughly. At the end of the first week Miss Hardcastle wrote a note to the Misses Holcroft, and informed them of this fact; and Marigold noted that both her aunts seemed surprised, though at the same time gratified that her education had not been so neglected as they had anticipated. Marigold soon began to find out what hard work really meant. She commenced to learn French, music, and drawing, so that most of her time out of school hours was occupied in preparing her lessons for the following day, or in practising scales and exercises on the piano. She soon settled into the ways of the school, and became a favourite with the teachers, for she was always attentive and willing, always wishful to do her best. With the girls Marigold was not popular, at first. They considered she tried to curry favour with the governesses, which was certainly not the case, and consequently they met her friendly advances with cold looks, till one whispered to the others that she was a niece of the rich Misses Holcroft, and therefore it might be better to be on good terms with her.

One morning as Marigold was going home from school she was joined by Muriel Wake, one of the girls in the same class as herself.

"We may as well walk together," Muriel remarked pleasantly. "You live in Powderham Crescent, don't you? I pass near by."

Muriel was a pretty little girl, with blue eyes, fair hair, and rosy cheeks. Marigold looked at her admiringly.

"I expect you find it dull living with your old aunts, don't you?" Muriel questioned.

Marigold acknowledged that she did, and explained that she had a mother and two brothers in London, whom she missed a great deal.

"But my aunts are very kind," she added, fearful lest she should seem ungrateful.

"Are you going to live with them always?" Muriel inquired.

"I don't know. I came to live with them because they promised to educate me. Mother wants me to learn to earn my own living, and that's why I wish so much to get on at school, and learn all I can, so that I may be able to help her by and by."

And Marigold, led on by her new acquaintance's questions, told her all about her London home, and how hard her mother worked.

"Do you mean to say she works for a shop?" Muriel asked, her blue eyes round with astonishment.

"Yes," was the reply. "I wish you could see some of her beautiful designs."

"And she keeps no servant, but does the housework herself! And you have been accustomed to black your own boots! Oh! I never heard of such a thing before!"

"But she cannot afford to keep a servant," Marigold said hastily, half regretful that she had spoken so openly.

"What was your father?" was the next question.

"He was in the army."

It struck Marigold that Muriel's manner was far less genial than it had been when she first joined her, but she could not think what was the reason of the change. She was not left long in ignorance, however, for when the girls were dispersing after school in the afternoon, one of them came up to her and asked if it was true what Muriel Wake was telling everyone, that Marigold's mother had been a servant before her marriage.

For a moment Marigold was so astonished that she stared at her questioner in silence. Then a great wave of anger swept over her, and her eyes flashed ominously.

"If Muriel Wake said that, she told a wicked story!" she cried passionately.

"She did say so," the other girl replied, "but I did not think it was true."

"It is utterly false!"

The conversation was taking place in the corner of a class-room whilst the girls were putting away their books. Some of the scholars had already left, and the governess had gone into the next room. Marigold flew to the side of Muriel Wake and caught her by the arm.

"What do you mean by telling such a falsehood about my mother?" Marigold demanded, almost choking with passion.

Muriel looked at the white face of the angry child with a disagreeable light in her blue eyes, whilst she smiled scornfully.

"Take care what you say!" she cried. "I have told nothing but the truth."

"You said—" Marigold commenced furiously, when the other interrupted her.

"I said that your mother worked for her living by doing needlework for a shop. I also said that she scrubbed, cleaned, and cooked, and that I should not be surprised if she had not been a servant before your father married her, for it is well-known that your aunts won't have anything to do with her!"

There was a moment's dead silence. The other girls in the class-room had drawn around Muriel and Marigold, to listen to the dispute, and were looking on, some with keen delight in the situation, others with amusement, and a few with evident disapproval. By this time Marigold was so enraged that she scarcely knew what she was doing. She stared with wild eyes at the girl who only this morning had approached her with overtures of friendship, marvelling at her treachery. How she hated her! Oh, how bitterly she hated her! In her ungovernable passion Marigold lifted her hand and would have struck the fair, pretty face that smiled at her mockingly, had not somebody caught her by the wrist and prevented her doing so. Turning around sharply, she saw one of the elder girls had appeared upon the scene, and now stood looking around inquiringly. Marigold knew who the new-comer was—Grace Long, the most popular girl in the school, a general favourite with teachers and pupils alike.

"What is the meaning of this?" Grace asked, in her clear, pleasant tones. "What are you sneering about, Muriel Wake? That expression does not suit your style of beauty, let me tell you!"

There was a laugh at this, whilst Muriel flushed angrily, and tossed her head.

Grace still held Marigold's wrist in her firm clasp. She laid her other hand on the child's shoulder, and surveyed her angry face with cool, kindly eyes.

"What are you in such a fierce passion about?" she inquired.

Marigold struggled for composure in vain. Her heart was beating wildly, and her trembling lips refused to answer a word. Grace saw she was unable to speak, and appealed to her companions. "Will one of you explain? What has gone wrong? Why have these two quarrelled?"

"It is entirely Muriel's fault," began one of the girls who had looked disapproval, but had not interfered hitherto; and she proceeded to repeat all that had been said on either side. Grace listened in silence, whilst Muriel still smiled scornfully. By this time Marigold was beginning to cool down sufficiently to realise what was going on, and was trying hard to keep from crying. She was conscious that Grace was speaking.

"It seems to me a great fuss has been made about a little matter," she was saying. "I cannot speak of how one feels about a mother from experience, because mine died when I was born—" Marigold looked up quickly at the speaker with sympathy in her eyes—"but it seems to me that if one's mother had been a servant, one would love her as much as if she had been the highest lady in the land. There is no disgrace in being a servant."

"But it is not true! Mother was not a servant!" Marigold broke in.

"No, I do not suppose she was; but if she had been you need not have felt shame on that account. I think you have excited yourself without sufficient cause. As for you, Muriel Wake, you know well enough your motives for putting a false construction on what you have been told. I do not think Miss Hardcastle would be very pleased, were she to hear of your behaviour."

Muriel evidently did not think so either, for she hastily packed away her books in her desk, and left the class-room. Grace drew Marigold down on a form by her side, and pointed out to her gently and considerately how foolish and wrong she had been to lose her temper. Marigold listened attentively to all the elder girl said.

"I was silly to tell Muriel about mother," Marigold acknowledged; "but she seemed so nice and friendly, I never guessed she would repeat everything to the other girls—not that I should have minded, if she had only told the truth!"

"Of course not! Another time I would find out more about a person before becoming confidential, if I were you. Muriel is a mischief-maker, but you could not know that."

"I liked her so much, and now I feel I shall hate her as long as I live!"

"Hush! You must not speak like that. Muriel has not treated you well, but it is not right to bear malice in your heart."

Marigold knew it was not, so she remained silent. Grace continued kindly—

"I would not make a trouble of this little affair if I were you; and if anything of a like nature occurs again, don't lose your temper. You will not be respected by the other girls if you do, and besides it is very wrong."

"I know it is! Oh dear, what would mother have thought if she had seen me just now! I am so glad you came up in time to stop me from striking Muriel. Oh, I never knew before I had such a dreadful temper!"

"'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty: and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city,'" quoted Grace softly.

Marigold went home in a very unhappy frame of mind. Her aunts noticed something had gone wrong, but refrained from asking any questions. The little girl prepared her lessons for the next day in a halfhearted sort of way, and went upstairs to her bedroom early, excusing herself on the plea of being tired. Ringing in her ears all the evening had been the words Grace Long had repeated from the sayings of the wise king: "He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty: and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city."

Marigold flung herself down by the side of her bed, and wept bitterly as she went over in thought the events of the day. Never in her life before had she given away to such a passion of anger. How weak she had been! how easily put out! And yet, when she recalled Muriel's treatment of her, her heart was hot with indignation again. First of all gaining her confidence, and then betraying it without a scruple! Was not such conduct enough to irritate anyone? Muriel was a hateful girl!

"Fight the good fight of faith!"

Marigold started guiltily as her father's motto flashed through her mind. Fight the good fight of faith for the sake of Him who, when He was oppressed and afflicted, opened not His mouth, save to pray for forgiveness for those who had wronged Him. A sense of shame and humiliation crept over the child as she wept. How she had meant to humbly follow in the steps of the Saviour, and how grievously she had erred this day! She had fallen back from the fight; the enemy had beaten her! Oh, if she could only tell her mother, but no, that was impossible; she could not write of the cause of her wrath, the very thought of it made her angry even now, when she was beginning to realise how wrong her passion had been. She did not think she could ever forgive Muriel Wake!

"Child, what is amiss?"

It was her Aunt Mary's voice, and her Aunt Mary's arms that lifted her from the ground.

"What is troubling you, my dear?" Miss Holcroft asked tenderly, as Marigold flung herself crying bitterly upon her breast.

Then the whole story came out. The old lady listened with troubled eyes, and a little glow of indignation rose to her face as Marigold said—"Muriel told the girls that the reason why you and Aunt Pamela would have nothing to do with mother was because she had been a servant!"

Marigold did not spare herself. She confessed she would have struck Muriel but for the timely intervention of the elder girl.

"I know it was very wicked," she sobbed, "and mother would be so grieved to know how I lost my temper; but indeed, Aunt Mary, I am sorry!"

"You certainly had cause for indignation," Miss Holcroft allowed, "but temper always does harm. There is such a thing as just wrath, but that was not your feeling, I conclude, Marigold, for from what you have told me I imagine you lost entire control of yourself, and did not know what you were doing. If you had reflected for a moment, I feel sure you would not have thought of striking that girl, badly as she had treated you."

"No, indeed, Aunt Mary!"

"You see to what lengths an unbridled temper will lead one. I had no idea you were so passionate."

"I had no idea of it, myself," Marigold said dolefully.

"But perhaps you were never so greatly aggravated before, my dear!"

"No, I don't think I ever was. It—it was on mother's account, really."

"Try to forget the remarks of that unkind little girl; and ask God to help you to curb your angry temper. He will, you may be sure. And now, dear child, go to rest, and do not allow your mind to dwell upon the events of the day; and when you go to school to-morrow do not resent what has occurred. It was good of that big girl to interest herself on your behalf. What did you say her name was?"

"Grace Long. She is a boarder, but I do not know much about her, because she does not work in our class-room. She was very kind to me to-day. I think she must be a nice girl, because everyone seems to like her."

"Well, good-night, Marigold. Sleep well, and forget your troubles in pleasant dreams."

"Good-night, dear Aunt Mary," Marigold replied, as she flung her arms around the old lady's neck, and gave her a loving kiss. "You are one of the best people in the world!"

Miss Holcroft laughed, and shook her head. As she went downstairs to join her sister in the drawing-room her gentle face settled into graver lines, and she sighed regretfully as she thought of Marigold's mother.

[CHAPTER VIII]

MARIGOLD BECOMES FRIENDLY WITH GRACE LONG,

MISS HOLCROFT SPEAKS HER MIND

MISS HARDCASTLE'S pupils were allowed a break of twenty minutes in the middle of the morning. When it was wet they remained indoors, but when the weather was fine they usually repaired to the playground, where big and little girls both passed the time in playing games. At first, Marigold did not much enjoy this twenty minutes, because her companions were not genial; but on the morning after her disagreement with Muriel Wake she found that a change had taken place in the girls' feelings towards her, the fact being that they were most of them thoroughly disgusted with Muriel's behaviour, and ready to make up to Marigold for their former coolness. She met their advances gladly, for she had felt her loneliness in their midst; but she was determined that she would not take any of them into her confidence, at least until she knew them better.

In the playground Grace Long approached Marigold with a pleasant remark about the beauty of the day. It was a perfect morning. The chestnut trees that surrounded Miss Hardcastle's garden were in full bloom, and the air was sweet with the mingled perfume of lilac and laburnum blossoms. Marigold was seated on a bench by herself; she looked up a little shyly when Grace addressed her, for the big girls did not have much to say to their juniors, as a rule.

"Why are you not at play with the others?" Grace asked.

"I have been playing with them, but I got tired and sat down for a rest. I have never been accustomed to running about much, but I have been having a good time to-day."

Grace sat down on the bench by Marigold's side.

"Have you spoken to Muriel Wake this morning?" she inquired.

"Oh no! I don't wish to speak to her I don't want to have anything to do with her!"

"She served you badly, but she will be sorry one of these days. Muriel and I are alike in one respect—we are both motherless. She lives with her father, who is an exceedingly rich man, and very seldom at home. She has been brought up entirely by servants; her father seldom keeps the same servants long, so Muriel has been first in the charge of one person, then another. She has never had a fair chance of learning to be faithful and true, poor little girl!"

Grace presently went on to talk of the other girls, until Marigold was struck with surprise that she should know so much about them.

"You see I have lived in Exeter many years," she explained, "and all that time I have been at school. I spend my holidays here too."

"You spend your holidays here!" Marigold exclaimed. "How is that?"

"I have nowhere else to go, because my father is in India, and I have no friends in England. When my education is finished, I believe father intends sending for me to go out to him."

"I suppose you are longing to go, are you not?"

"Well, I hardly know. Father seems like a stranger to me, and Miss Hardcastle has always been my best friend. I dread the thought of leaving her. You cannot imagine how kind she really is. Now, I wonder if you will think me very curious if I ask you a question?"

"No, indeed! What is it?"

"What did Muriel Wake mean about your mother working?"

Marigold explained, whilst Grace listened attentively.

"Ah!" she cried, when the little girl had finished speaking, "how you must love your mother!"

"I think that was why I was so very angry with Muriel. It seemed to me so dreadful that she should sneer at mother, and try to make a laughing-stock of her! She—who—who—"

Marigold paused, her chest heaving with strong emotion, her eyes full of indignant tears.

Grace laid a gentle hand on hers, and pressed it sympathetically.

"Rich people don't understand," Marigold continued tremulously; "they don't know what it is like to be poor! Even Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela—"

She stopped abruptly, suddenly remembering that she ought not to mention the relations that existed between her mother and aunts to a comparative stranger.

"God understands," Grace said earnestly; "what does it matter about others, if He knows?"

Marigold's face cleared, and a sunny smile chased all signs of sorrow from her face.

"Ah, that is what mother says!" she answered brightly.

From that time the little girl's school-life was happier. There sprang up between her and Grace Long a friendship which caused some astonishment, on account of the difference in their respective ages. Muriel Wake showed no further animosity towards Marigold, but the two children rarely spoke, and avoided each other's company as much as possible. Marigold's aunts were pleased to find that she was happy at school, and that she was attentive to her duties. They were very kind to her, taking her little excursions into the country on Saturday afternoons, and allowing her to visit those of her schoolfellows with whom she was on friendly terms; consequently, though the little girl worked hard, she had plenty of recreation, and grew rosy-cheeked and plump.

"I wonder what her mother would think of her now?" Miss Holcroft could not refrain from remarking to her sister one day. Marigold was not present, but Miss Pamela's face darkened, as she made reply—

"Why do you allow your mind to dwell on that woman? She is not likely to see Marigold for some time to come!"

"No. But I was thinking how pleased she would be to know that the dear child has so greatly improved in every way since she came to us. See how she has grown, and what a healthy colour she has! When she first arrived we were struck with her fragile appearance. Then, too, she seems as happy as the day is long."

"Of course she is! She has every reason for happiness. She fretted for her mother and brothers for a while, no doubt; but I believe we are slowly weaning her from them."

Miss Holcroft made a faint gesture of dissent, which her sister noticed with a frown.

"You do not agree with me, Mary?"

"I do not, Pamela. Marigold is as fond of them as she ever was, but naturally she has got over the first pangs of separation. She writes home regularly once a fortnight, and though she does not say so, I am sure she simply longs for her letters in return. It is my private opinion that the fact that she rarely mentions her mother's name makes her dwell on her in her thoughts more than she would otherwise. Poor Rupert's wife brought up his daughter well; that we must acknowledge."

Miss Holcroft had spoken with unwonted firmness hitherto; now she looked at her sister with appealing eyes, as she added in rather faltering accents—

"I think that our not being on friendly terms with the mother puts the child in a false position, and gives people wrong impressions."

"What can you mean, Mary?" Miss Pamela asked sharply. "I fail to understand you."

In a few words Miss Holcroft gave her sister an account of the statement Muriel Wake had circulated about Marigold's mother some weeks before.

"Why was I not told at the time?" Miss Pamela demanded.

"I should have known nothing about it myself, Pamela, if I had not discovered poor little Marigold in her bedroom crying as though her heart would break. I asked for an explanation; I am quite sure she had not intended to tell either of us. I believe she is on good terms with most of her schoolfellows now; but I often think of the unkind construction people may be putting on our behaviour to the child's mother."

"Our behaviour! What do you mean? We have never injured her in any way! She is nothing to us!"

"But Marigold is. We are both fond of her, and—oh, Pamela, I wish you were not so unforgiving. I cannot think how, feeling as you do, you can kneel down and say the Lord's Prayer!"

Having spoken with indignant warmth, Miss Holcroft was not a little alarmed at her temerity, fearing she might have offended her sister; but Miss Pamela's face expressed nothing but astonishment; she had never received such a reproof before.

It was evening, and the sisters were alone in the drawing-room, whilst Marigold in her own room upstairs was engaged in writing her fortnightly letter to her mother. Miss Pamela's head was bent over her woolwork. In her youth it had been the fashionable employment for ladies, and she was always deeply interested in it. She had worked coverings for a suite of furniture, in bunches of flowers; indeed, traces of her handiwork were to be seen all over the house.

"I must go upstairs and fetch that blue wool I bought yesterday for these forget-me-nots," she remarked presently, as she rose and laid her work on a table.

Miss Holcroft looked after her retreating figure anxiously.

"I do hope I have not offended her," she murmured, with a sigh.

But Miss Pamela was not offended, nor was she even angry.

"I cannot think how, feeling as you do, you can kneel down and say the Lord's Prayer!" her sister had said, and the words rang in her ears as she went slowly upstairs. Passing Marigold's room she paused and glanced in, for the door was standing wide open. The little girl, clad in a blue serge skirt and a cotton blouse, was bending over the writing-table, so engrossed in her occupation that she never heard her aunt's footsteps, and looked up with a start as Miss Pamela laid a light hand upon her shoulder. Marigold blushed with surprise, and jumping up, placed a chair for her aunt, who sat down, glancing round the room as she did so, to see if it was in good order. Fortunately, everything was in its place, and Miss Pamela noted the fact with an approving smile.

"You are improving, Marigold," she said. "I have not had to complain of your untidiness lately, I am pleased to say."

Marigold blushed a rosier red, this time with pleasure, for Aunt Pamela's words of praise were rare.

"You are writing to your mother, I suppose?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela."

"You get on with your schoolfellows better than you used, do you not, Marigold?"

"Oh yes!"

"Mary has been telling me that you had something to put up with from them at first—she mentioned one girl in particular, Muriel Wake, I think, who made herself extremely objectionable."

"I find that is Muriel's way," Marigold explained. "I see now how silly I was to think so much about what she said. The girls do not care for her, and, indeed; I think she would be very unpopular if she were not so rich."

"Ah! Is she so very rich, then?"

"Yes, I believe so. The girls say she will be a great heiress one day. She leaves me alone now, but I know she dislikes me, though I can't think why. The girl I like best in the whole school is Grace Long. Oh, by the bye, Aunt Pamela, Barker says she is going to have tea with her old mother next Saturday afternoon, and if you and Aunt Mary will give your permission, she will take me with her."

"Good gracious, child! Why does Barker want your company?"

"Because she has told me so much about her mother that she thought I should like to know her."

"And do you really want to make the old woman's acquaintance?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela, indeed I do!"

"Well, I have no objection to your doing so. She lives in an almshouse, does she not?"

"Yes. When she was young she lived in service with Mrs. Adams."

"What! Farmer Jo's mother!" Miss Pamela exclaimed.

Marigold nodded. There was a smile upon her lips, and her eyes shone brightly. At that moment, for the first time, she felt quite easy in her Aunt Pamela's company.

"How is it people take you into their confidence, child? Barker is usually such an uncommunicative person."

"I was telling her about mother—" Marigold began, and paused abruptly.

"Yes?" Miss Pamela queried.

"And—and then she told me about her old mother, and afterwards, when she had been home to see her, I asked how she was, and said I should like to know her. That's how it was Barker came to ask me to go with her on Saturday. She is so fond of her mother!"

"I see. I had no idea you and Barker were on such good terms."

Miss Pamela rose, remarking as she did so—

"You had better get on with your letter, my dear. Will you give your mother a message from me?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela," Marigold replied, in accents of profound astonishment.

For a few minutes Miss Pamela stood undecided, then she said—

"Tell your mother from me that we find her little daughter a good child. That is all."

"Oh, thank you, Aunt Pamela! Mother will like to hear that better than anything!"

Marigold threw her arms impulsively around Miss Pamela's neck and gave her a hearty kiss. Her aunt returned the caress with unusual warmth, and then left her to finish her interrupted letter.

Downstairs in the drawing-room Miss Holcroft was wondering what had become of her sister, but when Miss Pamela at length re-entered the room it was with a smile on her lips.

"Pamela, I hope I did not speak too plainly just now," Miss Holcroft commenced timidly, as the other resumed her woolwork. "Perhaps it was not my place to make such a remark. I had no right to judge your conduct. I fear you are displeased with me."

"No, I am not, Mary. Why should you not say what you think? You had a perfect right to express your opinion."

Miss Holcroft's face brightened at this, and she ventured to continue—

"Then you acknowledge we have been a little unjust to poor Rupert's widow?"

"Not at all. I acknowledge nothing of the kind. But I will allow that she has brought up Marigold carefully, if that is any satisfaction to you, Mary."

"I believe she is a good woman and a Christian, or she would not be so loved by her little daughter," Miss Holcroft said, with decision in her tones.

To this remark her sister made no reply, and presently changed the topic of conversation.

[CHAPTER IX]

MARIGOLD VISITS BARKER'S MOTHER

THE following Saturday afternoon Marigold accompanied Barker to pay a visit to the latter's mother. The little girl had received permission from her aunts to gather some flowers to take with her, and she had picked a bunch of roses and lilies of the valley, which later ornamented the centre of the tea-table in the old woman's tiny parlour. Marigold had never been in an almshouse before. The one where Mrs. Barker lived was one of a row, each having a strip of garden in front, with a narrow path through the middle leading to the door, which was painted bright green. The houses were all built exactly alike, but the individual tastes of the occupiers could be seen from even a casual scrutiny of the windows. In one hung a canary in a brass cage; in another flowering plants showed between snowy muslin curtains; whilst other windows had a neglected appearance, the curtains hanging limp, and in some cases drab with dirt; one or two had merely under-blinds and no curtains at all.

Barker paused before a trim, well-kept garden, where simple cottage flowers bloomed gaily,—clumps of forget-me-nots and double daisies—those known as bachelors' buttons—golden wallflowers, and purple pansies. Mrs. Barker stood on the doorstep waiting to greet her visitors, for she had been watching for them from the window. She was a very old woman, whose sparse grey locks were tucked neatly away under a cap—her best, which was adorned with mauve ribbons, and whose face was lined and wrinkled, indeed, but nevertheless wore an expression of perfect contentment. After a youth and middle-age of hard work, Mrs. Barker was spending the remaining years of her life in peace and happiness. She had no worries, no troubles nowadays.

Marigold soon discovered that Barker in her mother's parlour, and Barker as she was known in her mistresses' house, bore but a slight resemblance to each other. The silent, grave-faced maid was metamorphosed into a bright, smiling woman, who seemed bent upon being the life of the little party. She had brought a large basket with her, the contents of which proved to be packages of tea, sugar, and other groceries, and lying on the top, so that it should not be crushed, was a summer mantle, which her own clever fingers had made for her mother.

"I remembered your old cloak would be too heavy for you to wear these sunny days," she explained, "and I think this will be the very thing-for you."

Mrs. Barker was delighted; her face was radiant with pleasure. She tried on the new garment, at once, whilst her daughter and Marigold looked on approvingly.

"I declare it's too good for me!" she exclaimed.

"Not a bit of it, mother. It suits her very well, doesn't it, miss?" Barker said, appealing to Marigold.

"Yes; it does indeed, Mrs. Barker," the little girl answered. "You look so nice in it!"

"I feel as grand as a duchess," Mrs. Barker declared. "My neighbours will hardly know me when they see me out-of-doors next!"

Marigold enjoyed her tea immensely. She drank it out of a bright pink teacup with "A present from Brighton" engraved upon it in gold letters. She was debating in her mind whether it would be considered a breach of good manners to remark upon it, when Mrs. Barker said—

"You are looking at your teacup, I see, miss. Isn't it pretty?"

"Yes, very pretty," Marigold replied. "I was going to say so, only I was afraid you might think me rude for noticing it to you."

"Louisa brought it home from Brighton for me last winter," Mrs. Barker explained.

"Louisa?" Marigold said questioningly.

"Yes, miss. Why, you don't mean to tell me you don't know who Louisa is?" the old woman exclaimed, laughing.

"Who is she?" Marigold asked, feeling bewildered at the amusement she saw on the faces of mother and daughter.

"Why, Louisa is my daughter, to be sure!" Mrs. Barker responded.

"What, Barker? Oh, how silly of me not to guess! But, do you know, I never knew what her name was before!"

"They always call me by my surname at Powderham Crescent," Barker informed her mother, "so, of course, Miss Marigold could not tell who you were talking about."

Presently Marigold asked Mrs. Barker if she ever saw her old mistress, Mrs. Adams, now.

"No, miss, never," was the reply. "When I married I went to live at Plymouth; and afterwards, when my husband died, and I came back to Exeter, I thought maybe Mrs. Adams had had so much trouble herself she would not care about seeing me, and I did not wish to intrude on her grief—poor lady! I daresay you've heard tell, miss, how she lost her husband and children at one time—all but the baby?"

"No. Do please tell me," Marigold requested, in accents of deep concern.

"'Tis a very sad story, miss. Someone who read about it in the newspaper told me of it first of all, whilst I was at Plymouth, and then, when I came back to Exeter, I met a friend who was at Exmouth at the time, and knew all about the accident. It seems Mr. and Mrs. Adams and their five children were in lodgings at Exmouth for change of air, and one day master—I mean Mr. Adams—took the four children out mackerel fishing. Mrs. Adams stayed at home with Master Jo, who was a little chap about two years old, I should think, then. Well, miss, it was a fine day, but breezy, and—no one ever knew how it happened—the sailing boat capsized, and master, and the children, and the boatmen were all drowned. The boat was found afterwards bottom upwards, and next tide all the poor dead bodies were washed ashore."

"Oh, how sad, how terribly, terribly sad!" cried Marigold, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, I wonder it did not kill poor Mrs. Adams!"

The old woman shook her head sorrowfully as she continued—

"The shock would have killed some women, but she was not one of the sort to lie down and die. Besides, she had little Master Jo left to live and care for; and they tell me those two are all in all to each other. I have seen him many times, and often I've been tempted to stop him and ask after his mother, for he has a gentle face, although he is such a big man!"

"He is one of the kindest men I ever met," Marigold declared, with conviction in her tones; and she proceeded to give Mrs. Barker an account of her journey from Paddington to Exeter, when she had been so sad after parting from her mother, and Farmer Jo had proved himself such a cheering companion.

"Ah, he's like his father, I take it," the old woman said. "I never met a happier couple than Mr. and Mrs. Adams, and to think he should have been taken from her like that, and all those dear children too! The ways of God are mysterious, and it must have been a sore trial to her faith when He laid such affliction upon her."

"Yes," Marigold agreed. "I wonder she could ever feel happy again, and yet, do you know, Mrs. Barker, she has such a bright face!"

"Has she, miss? Ah, you may depend upon it, she has learnt to say, 'Thy will be done.'"

Marigold looked thoughtful. The story she had heard from Mrs. Barker's lips had impressed her deeply, and she was somewhat silent during the remainder of the visit. She had stepped along lightheartedly by Barker's side in the afternoon, but on their return journey she walked soberly and sedately, with an expression of unusual gravity on her face.

"Well, miss, what do you think of my mother?" Barker asked, at length.

"Oh, I like her so much!" the little girl replied promptly. "That is a dear little house she lives in."

"She was very glad to get it, Miss Marigold; and it's a great relief to my mind to know that she will have a comfortable home as long as she lives. It's a bit lonely for her sometimes, though!"

"I daresay it is. I hope you will take me to see her again, Barker; that is, if you think she will not mind. But perhaps she would rather you went alone?"

"Oh no, Miss Marigold! I could see she took quite a fancy to you, and I'm sure she will be always very glad whenever you care to go and see her, for she dearly loves to have visitors. Until lately she has been accustomed to lead a busy life, and not being able to read—"

"What! Can't she read?" Marigold cried, in accents of profound surprise.

"No, miss," Barker replied. "When she was a child, parents were not bound to send their children to school, like they are now. My grandfather was only a farm labourer, and as mother was the eldest of a long family, she went into service when she was barely fourteen, and before that she had to look after her little brothers and sisters, so you see she never went to school at all. As I was saying, not being able to read, I'm afraid the time sometimes hangs heavy on her hands."

"How sad not to be able to read the Bible!" Marigold said, lifting a pair of thoughtful dark eyes to her companion's face.

"I read her a chapter when I go home every other Sunday," Barker replied. "She says she thinks of it afterwards, and of what she hears in church too. She has a wonderful memory, and can repeat many of the psalms word for word, and a great many hymns."

Marigold found her aunts seated placidly in the drawing-room as usual, on her return. Both greeted her with brightening faces, and Miss Holcroft said—

"Come here, Marigold, and tell us what you have been doing. Did you find Mrs. Barker at home?"

"Yes, Aunt Mary; she was expecting us, you know. She seemed very glad to see us, and her parlour is such a nice little room—it is, really!" seeing a doubtful look on Miss Holcroft's face. "It is not so very much smaller than our sitting-room in London. Everything was so clean and tidy, you would have been delighted with it, Aunt Pamela."

Miss Pamela smiled as she inquired—

"Did you have tea?"

"Oh yes! At a little round table with the bunch of flowers I took from our garden in the centre. They looked beautiful, and quite scented the room. Mrs. Barker was so pleased with them. She has a little garden of her own, you know, and it is full of flowers, though not lilies or roses—ones that are cheap and easy to grow."

"Does she cultivate them herself?" Miss Pamela asked, with interest in her tone. "If so, perhaps she would like some roots from us. The lilies of the valley increase rapidly, and we could well spare her a few roots."

"I think she would be very glad to have them," Marigold replied.

"Perhaps I might go and see the old woman one of these days."

"Oh, do, Aunt Pamela! She loves having visitors, Barker says."

"We have had visitors in your absence, my dear," Miss Holcroft interposed at this point. "Now, I wonder if you can guess who they were."

Marigold shook her head smilingly.

"One of them is really more your friend than ours, I'm sure," Miss Holcroft continued. "Now you know, do you not?"

"No, indeed; I cannot imagine who they were," Marigold responded, looking puzzled.

"Farmer Jo and his mother have been here. They had been to see Mrs. Nowell, and afterwards they called here. They both seemed very disappointed you were not at home, did they not, Pamela?"

"Yes, I'm sure they were sorry to have missed you, Marigold," Miss Pamela said.

"Mrs. Adams said she was very fond of children."

"Oh, I wish I had been at home!" the little girl cried, in disappointed accents.

"We have promised to drive out to their farm one fine day," Miss Pamela continued. "If all is well, we will take you with us, Marigold."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Pamela!"

Marigold had spoken in bright, glad tones; but now a shadow crossed her face, and in a few words she told them the sad story she had heard from old Mrs. Barker that afternoon. Her aunts listened in silence, but when she had finished her tale, Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, whilst Miss Pamela's usually cold face was full of sympathy.

"And to think that she should have lived to be happy again!" the latter exclaimed. "She looked so cheerful this afternoon. I'm sure I thought she had lived an ordinary, uneventful life, and instead of that she must have suffered as few women are called upon to do. To lose husband and four little children at once, and in such a heartrending manner! Oh, I wonder it did not kill her!"

"That is what I said to Mrs. Barker," Marigold put in; "but she said Mrs. Adams was not one of the sort to lie down and die."

"What did she mean by that remark, my dear?" Miss Holcroft asked.

"I think she meant that Mrs. Adams trusted in God, and knew it was His will," Marigold answered reverently. "I suppose she felt like mother did when father died—only, of course, mother had all of us left," the little girl added.

"How did your mother feel?" Miss Pamela questioned abruptly.

"First of all as though she did not want to live without father, and then she thought that it was very selfish to wish to die, when perhaps God had so much work for her to do, and she remembered she was only parted from father for a time, and it was wicked to be sorry because he had finished the fight."

"'Finished the fight?'" Miss Pamela repeated inquiringly.

"Yes—the good fight of faith," Marigold explained.

There was a brief silence, broken by the little girl's remarking—

"It must be dreadful not to be able to read. Poor Mrs. Barker never went to school in her life, so she never learned; of course it is not her fault, but it does seem a great pity, does it not? Barker reads to her every other Sunday when she goes home, and then she has something to think about afterwards."

"Poor old soul!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed sympathetically.

When Marigold wrote to her mother, which she did in the course of a few days, she found she had many topics to write about. Many new acquaintances had come into her life, many new interests occupied her thoughts. Hitherto, in her London home her life had been of necessity a somewhat narrow one, because her mother had always been much occupied, and had no time for making new friends; but, now, Marigold found herself in a very different position. She had a comfortable home, ample pocket-money, and everything that wealth could give; but, oh! how she longed sometimes for the sight of her mother's face, the touch of the loving arms, the sound of the gentle voice.

Then, too, how happy she would have been, if her mother and brothers could have shared the good things she was learning to take as a matter of course—the spacious house with its comfortable belongings, the well-trained servants, the plentiful food, all of which had seemed to her at first to be great luxuries.

The little girl had on her arrival been prejudiced against her aunts on account of their having ignored her mother, but Miss Holcroft had won her love at once; and she was beginning to discover that there was much to admire and respect in Miss Pamela's sterner character. But, in spite of the kindness of both her aunts, in spite of her comfortable surroundings and freedom from the petty cares that she had shared with her family in her London home, Marigold never ceased to long for the day, years hence though she knew it would probably be, when she would return to her mother, never, as she trusted, to be parted again.

[CHAPTER X]

THE RECONCILIATION BETWEEN MARIGOLD AND

MURIEL WAKE

IT was a hot July day. Afternoon school was over at last, and Miss Hardcastle's girls trooped out into the sunshine, glad to be in the open air, for the weather was terribly oppressive, and the schoolrooms, though well ventilated, had been almost unbearably close. Marigold was nearly half-way home when a sudden doubt assailed her mind, and she made a hasty search in her schoolbag, only to find that she had left behind her a book she particularly wanted. She must return to fetch it, or she would not be able to prepare one of her most important lessons for the following day; so she hastily retraced her footsteps, and entered the class-room with flushed cheeks and panting breath. After taking the forgotten book from her desk, she sat down, meaning to rest a few minutes before starting for home again; and then she noticed that she was not alone, as she had imagined.

Seated at a table by one of the open windows was Muriel Wake, her elbows resting on the blank sheet of paper in front of her, and her head in her hands. She did not glance at Marigold, who regarded her with astonishment, for there was an air of utter dejection about the little figure that surprised her greatly. Muriel was usually full of life and high spirits.

Having rested until she had become somewhat cooler, and had regained her breath, Marigold picked up her bag of books, and was about to leave the room when a slight sound, half sigh, half sob, from Muriel arrested her attention, and she paused irresolutely. Although Muriel had treated her in such an unfriendly fashion, Marigold could not bear to see her in trouble without trying to console her, and after a moment's hesitation she crossed to her side, and touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"Muriel! Why are you crying? What is it?"

Muriel started as though she had been stung, and shook off the other's hand impatiently.

"What do you want?" she demanded, in pettish tones. "Why can't you leave me alone? I don't want you bothering me with questions, just as if you cared!"

"I—I thought you were crying," Marigold explained, "and—and I wondered if I could help you in any way."

Muriel raised a hot, tear-stained face and gazed at her companion with blurred blue eyes.

"I suppose you're mocking me!" she cried angrily. "Why don't you go away and leave me in peace? You're glad to see me like this, I know!"

"Indeed I am not, and you're very wicked to say so!" Marigold protested warmly. Then, her pity at the sight of Muriel's woebegone countenance getting the better of her indignation, she added more quietly, "Don't be silly! You know very well I'm not mocking you! Tell me what's wrong, do!"

"Do you really want to know? But no, of course you don't! You'll tell the other girls, so that they may jeer at me!"

"I hope I should not treat anyone so badly as that!"

"Well, Miss Smith has kept me in because I worked my sum all wrong," Muriel condescended to explain, speaking in a sulky tone, "and I haven't the faintest idea how to do it."

"Is that why you're crying?" Marigold questioned, for, as a rule, her companion did not take to heart any trouble in connection with her work.

"My head is aching, and I'm so dreadfully hot!"

"Why didn't you tell Miss Smith? Perhaps she would have let you off this once."

"Not she—cross old thing! She said I did not attend when she was explaining the rule, and working the example on the blackboard. However, as I can't work the sum, I suppose I must sit here until she chooses to let me go, or until I melt!"

Marigold laughed; and a slight smile flickered across Muriel's face.

"Would Miss Smith mind if I helped you?" the former inquired.

"Oh, would you, Marigold? No, I don't think Miss Smith would mind. It's not that I won't do the sum, I really can't. I don't know how! See, this is it."

Muriel drew an arithmetic book towards her, and pointed out the sum. It presented no difficulties to Marigold, who was quick at arithmetic, and had been attentive during the lesson that day, whilst Muriel had been gazing idly about the room and not attending to a word the governess had been saying. It had been a hot, trying day for teachers and pupils, so it was small wonder Miss Smith had lost her patience with Muriel, when she had made the discovery that the child knew nothing whatever about the lesson she had been at some pains to make plain and simple for her pupils.

Presently the two heads—one golden, the other brown—were bent together over the hitherto blank sheet of paper; and soon, under Marigold's instructions, Muriel was enabled to understand, and work the sum correctly.

"Thank you, Marigold. I should never have done it but for you," Muriel said, with real gratitude in her voice; adding a little shamefacedly, "It is too bad of me to let you stay in on this broiling afternoon when you might have been out in the fresh air!"

"Nonsense! I am very glad I could help you. May you leave now, or must you wait for Miss Smith's permission to go?"

"Oh, she said when I had worked the sum I could put my paper on her desk and go."

In a few minutes the two children started on their homeward way together. Marigold could not help thinking of the day when she had given Muriel her confidence, and how it had been betrayed. The remembrance made her feel rather embarrassed, and she wished their walk was over. Muriel was looking pale and tired. She was not a very strong child, and the hot weather was trying her health and spirits.

"Shan't you be glad when the holidays come?" she asked. "I don't think we ought to have to go to school in this heat. Are you going home for the holidays?"

"I—I am afraid not."

"I suppose father will send me to the seaside; he generally does every summer. That will be a change anyway!"

"Will your father go with you?" Marigold inquired.

"Good gracious, no!" as though surprised at the idea. "He will take his holiday abroad somewhere, I expect; and I shall be packed off with our housekeeper, Mrs. Jones. She's a silly old woman, but, on the whole, I think I'd rather have her for a companion than father!"

"Are you not very fond of your father, then?"

"No, I'm not," Muriel acknowledged candidly.

"Isn't he good to you?" Marigold questioned.

"Oh, I suppose so. Yes. He gives me plenty of money, and when he comes home he brings me presents; but—well, I often think I should be better pleased if he loved me a little more."

"Oh, but surely he loves you!"

"I don't believe he does: He never wants to have me with him, or cares anything about what I do!" Muriel said, with a sigh that sounded genuinely regretful.

Marigold, whose home, in spite of its poverty, had always been rich in affection, looked at her companion with her dark eyes full of sympathy. Muriel noted the look, and somehow it touched a soft part of her selfish little heart, and she said, speaking hurriedly—

"What made you help me to-day? I wouldn't have done it, if you'd been in my place."

Marigold made no answer. She blushed rosy red and turned her head aside.

"Didn't you feel glad to see me crying?"

"No, indeed I did not!"

"Don't you hate me for having spoken of your mother to the other girls as I did?"

"No, not now. I did at the time, but afterwards I began to feel differently. I—I thought perhaps you did not understand how much I minded to hear mother spoken of like that."

"Oh, but I did understand. I did it on purpose to annoy you," Muriel confessed frankly. "I disliked you, because I saw Miss Smith thought a lot of you. She said to me one day: 'I wish you were as good and attentive as Marigold Holcroft; I never have to tell her the same thing twice!' I was jealous of you from the first."

"Oh, Muriel!" in reproachful tones.

"I was; and you must have seen it. That is why I was so astonished when you offered to help me with that sum. What made you do it?"

"I was sorry to see you crying."

"How odd! I should have been glad if it had been you! I wonder why you don't hate me?"

"I'm afraid I did hate you once; but I found if I went on hating you and feeling wicked I couldn't pray, so I tried to forgive you instead."

"Why couldn't you pray?" in accents of intense astonishment and curiosity.

"Because I couldn't say, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' That was why."

"You funny girl! I should never have thought about that at all."

"Don't you think about what you pray, then? Don't you feel that you're talking to God, and that He knows all you do, and think, and say?"

"No."

After a moment's silence, during which Marigold turned and looked at her companion to see if she was speaking sincerely, Muriel remarked—

"I suppose you are very religious. Of course, I say my prayers every night and morning, but I go through them as quickly as I can, to get them over."

"But what is the use of praying at all, if you feel like that?"

"I don't suppose it is any use!"

"Oh, Muriel! Did no one ever teach you that God is your Friend?" Then, as Muriel shook her golden head, Marigold continued impulsively, "You said just now you would be better pleased if your father loved you a little more, but you don't seem to care whether God loves you or not. Don't you know He does?"

"I never thought about it."

"Do you never read the Bible?"

"Never, except at school."

"Oh, I wish you would read a few verses from the Bible every day, like I do. I have my father's Bible for my own now, and—"

Marigold paused abruptly, wondering if on the morrow she would have cause to regret that she had not kept her companion more at a distance, instead of having touched upon a subject that was very near her heart. Perhaps Muriel guessed her thoughts, for she said quickly—

"Go on. What were you going to say? I promise I won't repeat it like I did before."

Thus encouraged, Marigold told how she had become possessed of her father's Bible, and what his motto had been. Muriel listened attentively, her face full of interest.

"'Fight the good fight of faith,'" she repeated thoughtfully. "And that is what you are trying to do, Marigold? I don't believe it would be the least good my trying, although I rather like the idea. I'll think it over. Do you know you and Grace Long are very much alike?"

"Oh, do you really think so?" Marigold questioned eagerly, her eyes brightening with pleasure, for she had a very sincere admiration for Grace.

"Yes. Not in appearance, but in the way you think about things. Grace is good-natured, and so are you. She must have a dull time of it always at school; but she seems happy enough. Sometimes I envy her, for I'm never very happy myself," Muriel confessed, a little dejectedly.

Marigold's aunts both looked greatly surprised when the little girl informed them that she had walked home from school with Muriel Wake; but their astonishment was profounder still when, a few days later, she asked permission to invite Muriel to tea on the following Saturday.

"Why, Marigold! That disagreeable child who served you so unkindly!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed.

"Yes, I know, Aunt Mary. I think Muriel is really sorry about that, and these last few days we have become much more friendly. I have not said anything to her about asking her here, so if you would rather not—"

"No, no!" Miss Holcroft interposed. "Have her to tea by all means if you wish it."

"But is it wise to be on friendly terms with a child possessing such a treacherous disposition?" Miss Pamela asked doubtfully.

"I am so sorry for her, Aunt Pamela!"

"How is that? I thought she had everything this world can give to make her happy."

"But she is not happy," Marigold told them positively.

"Then I fear she is an ungrateful, discontented little girl, Marigold!"

"I am afraid I cannot make you understand. No one cares for her, and—oh! I know it is her own fault, but it hurts her all the same!"

"Well, you have our permission to invite her here if you wish it, my dear," Miss Pamela replied; "but I should advise you to be cautious in your dealings with her, and not trust her too much."

So Muriel Wake became acquainted with Marigold's aunts, and as she was on her best behaviour, she made, on the whole, a favourable impression, and obtained their consent to Marigold's paying her a visit on a future occasion.

So commenced a friendship that was a surprise to everybody, including Miss Hardcastle herself who wondered what possible attraction wayward, undependable Muriel Wake could have for such a girl as Marigold, who gave no trouble whatever at school and worked with a hearty good will.

In the playground, one day, Grace Long spoke to Marigold upon the subject.

"So you do not hate Muriel any longer?" she said, smiling.

"No. She has been much nicer to me lately," was the response. "I think she is often disagreeable because she is unhappy."

"That is my opinion also; but it is selfish and unkind of her to try to make others suffer on that account. Poor Muriel! I am very glad to see you and she are better friends. Are you looking forward to the holidays? I am. Miss Hardcastle is going to take me to Ilfracombe for a few weeks. Isn't that something to look forward to?"

"It is indeed!"

"Are you going away?" Grace inquired.

"I expect not. I have heard nothing about it. I should dearly love to go home, but there is no chance of that," with a regretful shake of the head.

"Oh, I am sorry! But, never mind, perhaps you will see your mother sooner than you think."

Marigold tried to smile cheerfully, but it was a vain attempt. She was not looking forward to the end of the term with glad anticipation in any way, for she would miss the companionship of the girls; and she could not help envying the boarders who were going home for the holidays. Not that she was in the least unhappy with her aunts, only hearing so much about going home' brought back the old feeling of homesickness that she was striving to overcome, and had mastered to a great extent, though sometimes the longing for her mother and brothers was too strong to be kept in check. She grew a little languid and heavy-eyed, and her usually bright spirits flagged.

"You have been working too hard, child," Miss Pamela told her; "you will be glad of a rest."

"She wants a whiff of sea air, I think," Miss Holcroft said kindly, "a few weeks on the coast would do her good. Pamela, what do you say, shall we spend August by the seaside?"

"We will think about it," Miss Pamela replied. "There will be plenty of time to consider that matter later on."

[CHAPTER XI]

MARIGOLD IS INVITED TO ROCOMBE FARM,

AND HER ARRIVAL THERE

"I WENT to see Molly Jenkins this afternoon," I Miss Pamela announced a few days later, as she joined her sister and niece at the tea-table, "and I am sorry to say she is not at all well."

"Dear me! What is amiss?" Miss Holcroft asked, a look of concern on her gentle face. "Has she been working too hard?"

"No, I do not think it is that. She told me she had finished the beautiful bridal veil you saw her making some weeks ago, and has been well paid for it. Since then, she says she has been taking things easier. The poor girl was looking so pale and thin that I was struck with surprise and dismay at the alteration in her appearance; her spirits seem to have failed her too. She acknowledged she was not feeling well, and said she thought the hot weather had tried her health. It was stifling in her sitting-room this afternoon, not a breath of air came in the windows, though they were both open."

"The heat has been quite overpowering to-day," Miss Holcroft said; "did you not find it so at school, Marigold?"

"Oh yes, Aunt Mary. But think how much hotter it must be in London!"

Marigold sighed and looked thoughtful, for she had that day received a letter from her mother, saying how glad she would be for the boys' sakes when the holidays came, for the heat was making them languid, and Rupert had not been very well lately. How the little girl wished she could transplant her three loved ones to the Cornish fishing village, where it had been decided she was to accompany her aunts as soon as the term came to an end. She had never been by the seaside in her life, and though she was excited at the thought of the pleasure in store for her, yet her anticipation was shadowed by the remembrance of her mother and brothers, who, she knew, must be needing a change of air and scene far more than she did. She wondered if her aunts ever thought how monotonous their lives must be from year's end to year's end in that little suburban flat. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she missed part of the conversation that was going on, and started when Miss Holcroft called her by name.

"Yes, Aunt Mary," she answered quickly.

"What are you dreaming about, my dear? Have you not heard what Pamela has been saying?"

"Not a word, I am afraid," Marigold confessed. "I am so sorry, Aunt Pamela! Were you asking me something?"

"No, child. I was remarking that I saw Mrs. Adams in the city this afternoon, and she inquired how you were. I told her you were looking pale, and that we intended taking you away for a change next month; whereupon she said she wondered if you would care to spend a Sunday with them at Rocombe—that is the name of their farm."

"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold cried, her face shining with delight.

"I said I would ask you, and if you would like to go, Farmer Jo will drive in to fetch you on Friday evening, and bring you back early on Monday morning in time for school. It was a kind thought of Mrs. Adams, was it not? I see you like the idea, Marigold."

"Oh yes, yes! How good of her! I have never seen a farm! Oh, how kind people are to me!"

"I daresay two clear days in the country will blow the cobwebs away," Miss Holcroft said smilingly; "but need we trouble Mr. Adams to fetch Marigold? We might drive out to Rocombe ourselves, and leave her there."

"Perhaps that would be the better plan," Miss Pamela agreed. "I will write Mrs. Adams to that effect. The invitation was given with such spontaneous kindness that I had no scruples about accepting it, especially as I deemed doing so would be for Marigold's benefit."

"How good everyone is to me!" the little girl cried gratefully, glancing from one aunt to the other with eyes that expressed even more than her words.

"We believe you are trying to please us, Marigold," Miss Pamela responded. "I met Miss Hardcastle as I was returning home this afternoon, and she gave me an excellent report of your conduct at school; she looks upon you as a promising pupil, for the says you have ability, and are willing to work. I was much gratified to hear her opinion of you."

"I wish mother knew!" were the words that rose to Marigold's lips, but she did not utter them; instead, she remained silent, struggling with the desire to cry, she hardly knew for what reason, except that every kindness she received, every loving word her aunts gave her, seemed to set her farther apart from her mother and brothers. The contrast between her life and theirs was apparent to her more and more each day, and her heart cried out: "It is not fair that I should have everything, whilst they have nothing!"

Miss Holcroft noticed her little niece's emotion, and though she had no clue to the cause, she considerately changed the conversation into another channel by asking—

"Don't you think Mr. Jenkins may have something to do with poor Molly's sad looks, Pamela?"

"Yes, very likely. I fear he is not going on well; in fact, his daughter did not hesitate to say so in as many words. He returns home in a state of intoxication every night now, and Molly is in continual dread lest some accident should befall him. Poor girl, she has a heavy burden to bear!"

Miss Holcroft shook her head sadly as she replied—

"I imagined the last time I saw her that her father was getting worse and worse. Wretched man! What will be his end? There is nothing we can do for that poor girl, I fear."

"No, nothing whatever. She will not hear of leaving her father, and looked almost indignant when I suggested the advisability of such a step, talked of her duty to him, her duty, indeed! I wonder if it ever crosses his mind to think of his duty to her!"

"Ah, well, perhaps she is right," Miss Holcroft said gently. "She is very patient with him."

"Patient! I should think so!" Miss Pamela cried indignantly. "And to think how abominably he has served her from first to last! I could hardly keep my tongue still about him this afternoon when she was speaking of him, and looking all the while so fragile and slight as though a breath of wind would blow her away, yet withal so firm of purpose, and determined to remain with her father. 'He has no one in the world but me,' she said, 'and if I deserted him, what would become of him then?'"

"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold exclaimed, forgetting everything but her sympathy and admiration for Molly Jenkins, "how splendid of her!"

"Humph!" said Miss Pamela, "perhaps it was!"

Miss Pamela was one of those folks who never do themselves justice in the sight of others. People often had a wrong impression about her, deeming her cold, proud, and hard, when in reality she was kind-hearted and sympathetic. She was not a favourite with her acquaintances, but she possessed a few friends who had known her long enough to be certain of her excellent intentions, her sterling worth. She was very true and faithful, and hated nothing so much as deception and sham; therefore, when Marigold's father had come to her with the story of his marriage, her indignation had known no bounds, and she had jumped to the false conclusion that his wife had induced him to keep the secret from his aunts, for fear of their disapproval. She had not allowed him to enter into any explanations, and they had parted in anger, never to meet again, whilst she continued to harbour bitter thoughts against the woman who had been the cause of the breach between them. Only since she had known Marigold had she entertained any doubts as to her conduct in the matter having been right. There had sprung up in her heart a warm affection for her dead nephew's little daughter. She had fallen in with her sister's desire to take the child and educate her from a sense of duty; but now she loved Marigold dearly.

Marigold was like her father in appearance, she had his dark, beautiful eyes, she was sweet-tempered and kind-hearted, as he had been, and possessed his brave spirit; but Miss Pamela knew that the desire to do right, that was Marigold's strongest characteristic, must have been inculcated by the mother, and her alone. Miss Pamela's sentiments towards her nephew's widow had been decidedly modified since she had recognised that fact, though she had not acknowledged as much even to her sister.

Marigold was in a great state of excitement when Friday evening arrived at last, and she drove off with her aunts to Rocombe Farm. It was only three miles from Exeter, close to a pretty village, and not many minutes' walk from an old grey church which Miss Holcroft pointed out to the little girl as they passed, saying—

"I expect you will attend Divine service there on Sunday."

Marigold looked at the ancient building with interest, but it was soon lost to sight, and they were driving through the village, which consisted of a few thatched cottages, with two or three larger dwellings.

At length the carriage drew up in front of a long, low house with a porch in the centre, covered with roses and honeysuckle, and before which stretched a velvety lawn, edged with flower-beds. They alighted, and entered the garden through a wicket-gate at the moment the front door opened, and Mrs. Adams' small figure stepped lightly out to meet her visitors.

"I am so glad to see you all," she told them. "You dear little soul to accept my invitation!" she added, turning to Marigold and giving her a hearty kiss.

"It was very kind of you to ask me to come!" the child responded gratefully.

"I think she does look a trifle pale," Mrs. Adams continued; "but come inside, come inside."

She led them into the parlour, a large comfortable room with dark oak furniture that showed off well against a blue wall-paper. There, in spite of Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela's protestations, they were served with strawberries and clotted cream. Then Farmer Jo appeared on the scene, and they made such a merry, happy party that Marigold saw her aunts were sorry to leave.

"We shall trust to you, Mr. Adams, to bring Marigold back in time for school on Monday morning," Miss Pamela told Farmer Jo, after she and her sister were seated in the carriage ready to be driven home.

"You may rely upon me to do so, ma'am," he replied promptly.

"Thank you. You are very good. Good-bye, Mrs. Adams! Good-bye, Marigold."

The little girl sprang into the carriage and gave each of her aunts a kiss, then hopped out again, and stood between mother and son, smiling and nodding, as the carriage was driven away.

"Now what would you like to do this evening, my dear?" Mrs. Adams inquired. "Suppose I show you over the house first of all?"

"And when you've done that, mother, I'll take her around the place out-of-doors," her son suggested. "You'd like to see the farm buildings, wouldn't you?" he added, turning to Marigold, who acquiesced readily.

Accordingly Mrs. Adams led the way into the house and upstairs to a low-ceilinged room, in the centre of which stood a large four-post bed. A servant—a cherry-cheeked damsel whom her mistress addressed as Sally—had already unpacked Marigold's portmanteau, and was leaving the room as they entered.

"I gave you this bedroom because it is next to my own," the old lady explained. "I feared you might be lonely in a strange house."

Marigold glanced around her quickly. The apartment was furnished in an old-fashioned manner, the dressing-table being draped with white muslin looped up with bows of pale blue ribbon, and the walls were covered with a paper over which trailed full-blown roses. In one corner was a large doll's house on a stand, and as Marigold's glance rested upon it in wonder, Mrs. Adams said simply—

"Perhaps you have heard that I once had two little daughters of my own? God took them from me many years ago. Well, this was their room. Look here, my dear!"

She opened a cupboard door, and revealed to sight upon a shelf a lot of children's toys, including two old-fashioned Dutch dolls with cheeks whose bloom was as vivid and whose eyes were as black and staring as they had been half a century before.

A lump rose in Marigold's throat as she looked at the dead children's treasures, and she impulsively slipped her little warm fingers into the old lady's wrinkled hand.

Mrs. Adams smiled, and hand-in-hand they went over the rest of the house. Marigold was especially delighted with the dairy, its tiled floor and shining milk pans, and was promised that on the morrow she should be taught how to turn the rich cream into butter.

Then Farmer Jo came in and claimed her attention. She accompanied him to the stables, and was introduced to Colonel, the tall black horse that was driven in the dogcart, and to Mrs. Adams' pony, Dumpling, whose sole duty in life was to take his mistress about in a little, low basket carriage. After that they went for a stroll in the meadows near by, where the cart-horses were enjoying a rest after the work of the day, and the placid cows were lying down among the daisies and buttercups, pictures of ease and contentment. Then back to the house again, where supper was awaiting their return; and afterwards Marigold went to bed "comfortably tired," as she said, and lay down in her nest of feathers, meaning to go to sleep at once. But, instead, she remained awake, thinking of Mrs. Adams and Farmer Jo, till she heard the former come upstairs and pause outside the door.

"I am not asleep, Mrs. Adams," Marigold called out.

"How is that?" asked the old lady, as she entered and bent over the little girl. "Do you not find the bed comfortable?"

"Oh, very comfortable! I never felt such a soft bed before!"

"Ah, you have been accustomed to sleep on a mattress, and not a feather bed, I expect. Now, close your eyes like a dear child and try to sleep, or you will be tired to-morrow, and that will never do! Good-night, and may God bless you!"

Mrs. Adams pressed a kindly kiss on Marigold's forehead as she spoke, and went away, closing the door softly behind her. A few minutes later her little visitor was sleeping peacefully.

[CHAPTER XII]

MARIGOLD'S VISIT AT ROCOMBE FARM

SATURDAY morning was a busy time at Rocombe Farm, and Marigold was awakened early by pleasant sounds of life and bustle about the place. Jumping quickly out of bed, she ran to the window and peeped out from behind the blind upon the green lawn and the meadows beyond, fresh and glistening with dew.

Half an hour later she found her way downstairs and out into the yard, where the cows were being milked by a couple of the farm hands.

"Would you like a drink of milk, missy?" inquired one of the men.

Marigold thanked him, and said she would. She returned to the kitchen to fetch a cup, and enjoyed a good draught of the sweet, frothy beverage. Presently Mrs. Adams came down, and welcomed her young guest with a bright smile and an affectionate kiss.

What a happy day that was! Mother and son were eager that Marigold should enjoy herself and make the best of her short visit, which both declared must be repeated often.

She saw the butter made, fed the poultry, and investigated all the outbuildings, even to the pig-styes, in one of which she discovered a sow with eleven young ones; the sweetest, prettiest little creatures she had ever seen, only a few days old, black, and slippery as eels, as she found when she tried to catch one.

"I did not hurt him, indeed I did not!" she exclaimed, as having succeeded in grasping piggy in her two hands, the little animal uttered such piercing shrieks that she let him drop in alarm.

"No, no, of course not!" Farmer Jo, who was standing by looking on in some amusement, answered reassuringly.

"I never heard such a dreadful noise in my life," she continued. "Do little pigs always cry like that, Mr. Adams?"

"Always, if you touch them."

"They are very pretty; I thought pigs were ugly, dirty things!"

"That is quite a mistaken idea."

Marigold accompanied her host around his farm. He gave her a great deal of information about matters of which she had known nothing before; and she feared he must consider her extremely ignorant, especially when she mistook barley for wheat, and had to confess that she did not know the difference between a rook and a blackbird!

In the afternoon Dumpling was brought around to the front gate in the little basket carriage, and Mrs. Adams took Marigold for a most delightful drive through narrow shady lanes rich in ferns, where foxgloves grew tall, and meadow-sweet scented the air with its fragrance.

Dumpling was very fat, and his mistress allowed him to take his time; so the little girl could look about at leisure, and feast her eyes on the beautiful scenery visible from every gateway—wooded valleys, pleasant meadows, through which flowed a rippling stream, and far away in the distance the massive tore of the Dartmoor hills faintly visible through a soft blue haze.

"When Dartmoor looks near, we say it is going to rain," Mrs. Adams explained; "but if the distance appears great, as it does to-day, we know the weather will continue fine."

"How interesting everything is in the country!" Marigold said thoughtfully. "Oh, how I wish mother and the boys could have half the pleasures I get!"

"Perhaps their turn will come some day," was the cheery response. "One can never tell what the future holds in store for us. Your aunts seem very good, kind women, and anxious to make you happy."

"Yes; and indeed I am happy," the little girl declared earnestly.

"Then you can say, like the Psalmist: 'The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places.' Is it not so?"

"Yes."

After a moment's hesitation, Marigold explained to her new friend all about her mother and brothers, and her London home. Mrs. Adams listened with great interest, her bright dark eyes full of kindly sympathy.

"I see the thought troubles you that life is so much easier and pleasanter for you than for your mother and brothers," she said gravely; "but I would not let that worry me if I were you. It seems to me that your duty lies with your aunts at Exeter, for the present, at any rate. Has it ever occurred to you that they may want you more than your mother does?"

"No, never!"

"I think it is very possible they do. You tell me they make a happy home for you; you should enjoy it with a thankful heart, as a blessing God has given you, and not wonder why He has selected you instead of others to receive so many benefits. It is His will it should be so. When God bestows the good things of this world upon anyone, depend upon it He means them to be made the most of and appreciated. Do not worry about your mother, child; she has her Heavenly Father for a Guide, and He will mark out the fitting path for her, as He does for all who trust in Him. It seems to me that to be troubled because your dear ones are denied the pleasures you enjoy is almost to mistrust God."

"But it is so hard that I should be going away for a holiday by the seaside, when I know they want a change far more than I do!" Marigold cried, her voice full of a wistful sadness. "Poor mother has not been out of London for years, and the boys have so often talked of what they would do if they were in the country. Oh, Mrs. Adams, don't you think it is hard?"

"It appears so to you and me, my dear; but depend upon it God knows best. As you grow older you will learn, I hope, to trust Him more and more. It is difficult sometimes, when He takes from us what we love, whether it be riches, or home, or those dear to us, and bids us seek fresh interests in life. But we must be satisfied to let Him choose our path, remembering that He has promised to be with us always. As to that path—"

"Smooth let it be, or rough,

It will be still the best;

Winding or straight it leads

Right onward to Thy rest."

"Why, that is a verse from my mother's favourite hymn!" cried Marigold, a bright smile illuminating her countenance.

"It is a favourite one of mine too," the old lady told her, with an answering smile.

Presently Marigold mentioned Barker's mother. After a minute's reflection, Mrs. Adams remembered her quite well, although so many years had passed since they had last met. Marigold explained where Mrs. Barker lived, and all she knew about her, whilst Mrs. Adams made a mental note of the address, meaning to go and visit her old servant on some future occasion.

By and by Mrs. Adams asked the little girl if she would like to learn to drive, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, proceeded to show her how to handle the reins. Marigold was delighted, although at first she felt decidedly nervous; but Dumpling was a steady, well-behaved pony, and all went well.

On their way home they drew up outside the village shop, which was also the post-office, and Mrs. Adams went in to make some purchases, leaving Marigold outside. It was the funniest shop she had ever seen, Marigold decided, as she looked at the medley of goods displayed in the window—groceries and stationery, sweets and buns, clothes-pegs and brushes, all huddled together. She was smiling amusedly when Mrs. Adams reappeared and took her seat again.

"Were you laughing at our little shop?" the old lady questioned.

"Yes," Marigold acknowledged; "they seem to sell all sorts of things there."

"So they do. They keep a little of everything. You see, we are three miles from Exeter, and I do not know how we should get on without our shop. Have you enjoyed the drive?"

"Oh, so much, thank you! It has been a beautiful afternoon!"

They found Farmer Jo on the look-out for their return. He smiled when he saw Marigold with the reins in her hand, and told her on Monday when he took her home, she should drive Colonel in the dogcart.

The little girl's visit was slipping away all too quickly, she thought. On Sunday morning she accompanied Mrs. Adams and her son to church, and sat between them in a large square pew. It was only when they stood up that she could see the rest of the congregation, for the seats were of the high-backed, old-fashioned kind, with doors.

The worshippers were mostly of the labouring classes, and the choir was composed of women as well as men. It was a simple service, and the clergyman—an old man who had held the living for nearly half a century, and who knew the histories of all his parishioners—preached a plain sermon, such as the most uneducated person could understand, taking for his text the first part of the fifty-first verse of the second chapter of St. Luke's Gospel—

"'And He went down with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.'"

He proceeded to explain how Jesus fulfilled His duty to His earthly parents, submitting to their rule and doing their bidding. It was a sermon on duty,—the duty we owe to each other, and, above all, the duty of every living soul to God. Marigold listened intently, and was quite sorry when the clergyman had finished, for he had a simple, direct way of speaking, and possessed a pleasant voice that had a ring of sincerity in its mellow tones.

Outside in the churchyard, when the service was over, Mrs. Adams and Farmer Jo exchanged greetings with their friends and neighbours, as is the fashion in country parishes, and Marigold was introduced to so many strangers that she was rosy with blushes on account of the attention she was drawing upon herself, and the questions she had to answer.

How did she like the service? Did she admire the church? Had she lived in Exeter long? Was she going to stay some time at Rocombe Farm? To these and many other queries she gave polite replies, but she was not sorry when Mrs. Adams and her son said good-bye to their acquaintances and moved away.

Before leaving the churchyard, however, they turned down a side path, and there, in a sheltered corner shaded by a laburnum tree, were five green mounds, which Mrs. Adams pointed out as the graves of her husband and children. The spot was surrounded by iron rails, and a monument in Devonshire marble bearing the names of those who slept below, and the date of their deaths, told to passers-by the tragic story.

Marigold made no remark, for a lump was in her throat and tears in her eyes, but she gave Mrs. Adams' hand a sympathetic squeeze that told more than words could say. The old lady smiled, and leaning on her son's arm, and with the child at her other side, walked back to Rocombe Farm.

In the afternoon Marigold went for a long walk with Farmer Jo, and in the evening they all went to church again. So the happy Sabbath passed away, bringing the little girl's visit nearly to an end.

She was up betimes in the morning, and after an early breakfast took a lingering farewell of her kind hostess. She felt as though she had known her all her life.

"You must come and see us again, my dear child," Mrs. Adams said.

"Oh, I will indeed, if my aunts will allow me! Thank you so much for your kindness, dear Mrs. Adams!"

Then Farmer Jo lifted Marigold into the high dogcart, and putting the reins into her hands, swung himself up by her side. Colonel started off at a swinging trot, and they had soon left Rocombe Farm far behind, and were nearing the Ever Faithful City.

"What are you thinking about, eh?" Farmer Jo inquired, after a lengthy silence on Marigold's part.

"I was thinking of the day I first saw you, when we travelled down from London together," she answered. "Do you know, I was rather frightened of you, at first?"

"Now I wonder why?"

"Because you were so big, and when I saw you peeping at me from behind your newspaper, I thought you would fancy me silly to cry, and I had an idea you might laugh at me!"

"I was never farther from laughing in my life," he declared. "I never could bear to see anyone in trouble—but that's all past. You've made a lot of friends in Exeter by this time, I don't doubt."

"Oh yes, a great many!"

"What about that sour-faced individual who met you at the station?" he asked, smiling at the remembrance of Barker's astonishment at sight of him. "Do you reckon her among your friends?"

"Barker? Yea, indeed! She's a very nice woman when you get to know her. Oh!" with regret in her tones, "we are very nearly at home now, are we not?"

"Yes, very nearly."

Five minutes later the dogcart drew up in front of the Misses Holcroft's house in Powderham Crescent. Marigold hoped her aunts would be looking out, so that they might see she had driven, nor was she disappointed, for at the first glance she caught sight of their faces. Mr. Adams declined to come in; and, after he had lifted Marigold down, and handed her portmanteau to the servant who had been sent out to fetch it, he took his departure, whilst Marigold stood on the doorstep waving her hand till he was out of sight. Then she went indoors to answer her aunts' eager questions, and to give them a full and lengthy account of her visit.

The two days she had spent at Rocombe Farm had done her a world of good mentally as well as physically, and it touched her deeply to see how pleased her aunts were at her return. If she had been away two months, instead of only two days, they could not have been more glad to welcome her home.

[CHAPTER XIII]

GOOD NEWS FROM HOME, MARIGOLD AND

MISS PAMELA VISIT MRS. BARKER

"ONLY one day more, and then it will be, 'Hurrah for the holidays!'" cried Muriel Wake, as she danced up to Marigold and Grace Long, who were holding an animated conversation in a corner of the playground.

"My dear Muriel," expostulated the elder girl, "how hot you will make yourself, if you persist in hopping about in that absurd fashion!"

"I positively can't keep still, Grace; I feel so excited at the thought of saying good-bye to school for six whole weeks. I'm one mass of nerves, as Mrs. Jones says when I tease her—poor old soul! Now, what were you two talking about?"

"About where we are going for the holidays," Grace explained. "You know I am to accompany Miss Hardcastle to Ilfracombe?"

"Yes. I don't envy you, Grace! I wouldn't for the world be under Miss Hardcastle's eye all the holidays!"

The others laughed, and Grace hastened to reply—

"Well, I would rather be with her than anyone else. You cannot imagine what a pleasant companion she is. Are you going by the seaside, too, Muriel?"

"Yes, I believe so; but it is not decided where I am to be sent yet."

"Mrs. Jones is to go with you, I suppose?"

Muriel nodded, and shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of distaste.

"Think how dull I shall be, with only that stupid old woman for a companion, and she never will allow me to make friends with other children on the sands. Oh, Marigold, how I wish I could persuade father to let me go to the same place as you and your aunts!"

"It is quite a small village on the north coast of Cornwall," Marigold said; adding eagerly, "Oh, Muriel, do try to come! Think what a splendid time we should have together!"

"Yes," agreed Muriel, her face brightening. "What is the village called?"

"Boscombe."

"Boscombe?" Muriel repeated. "I shall remember that!"

"It is not very far from Bude," Muriel explained. "You have to go by coach part of the way, so Aunt Mary told me. Boscombe is not a fashionable place at all; but there are several good lodging-houses that have been lately built. When my aunts were little girls they used to go there every summer and live in a furnished cottage that belonged to their father; but it was pulled down many years ago, and an hotel built on the same ground."

Whilst Marigold and Muriel were walking home from school together, the latter reverted to the subject of the coming holidays, and said she should try her hardest to induce her father to send her to Boscombe.

"Father is coming home for a few days at the end of the week," she told her companion; "and then he will most probably decide where Mrs. Jones and I are to go."

The following day the school broke up for the long vacation, and all was hurry and bustle at Miss Hardcastle's establishment. The boarders were anxious to leave by the first available trains that would take them to their different destinations, and were engaged in putting the finishing touches to the packing of their boxes.

Marigold took an affectionate farewell of Grace Long, and returned to Powderham Crescent early, for the day scholars had been dismissed an hour before the usual time, as was generally the way on breaking-up day. On reaching home the first person she encountered was Barker, who handed her a letter from London that had arrived by the second post.

Marigold opened it eagerly, and sat down in a chair in the hall to read it, whilst Barker hovered near. A smile rose to the little girl's face, for it was a bright, loving letter her mother had written in answer to the one in which she had given a brief account of her visit to Rocombe Farm.

"I am delighted to hear you have such kind friends, my dear Marigold," ran the familiar handwriting, "and the knowledge that you have a happy home with your aunts gives me great pleasure. The boys broke up for their holidays yesterday. I think I told you that Rupert had not been very well, but he is much better now, I am glad to say. The fact is, the dear little lad has been working very hard at school, because he has hopes of being raised to a higher form again next term, and rather overdid it. Now, I have a piece of news for you. The boys have had an invitation to spend a month with a school friend at Hastings, and I have consented to their going. You remember that nice little fellow Neil Munro, who used to come to tea here sometimes? Well, it transpires that he is the only son of rich parents, and when his mother called to see me, and explained how they had taken a furnished house at Hastings, and begged me to allow my boys to visit them, I was only too delighted, and readily agreed. So they go next week, if all is well. I feel so grateful to Mrs. Munro for her thoughtful kindness, though she said the idea was Neil's. I expect I shall be a trifle dull at home with all my children away, but I shall be busy as usual, and the thought that you are all having good holidays will recompense me for a little loneliness. I thank God for His goodness to my dear children!"

Marigold uttered a cry of joy and thankfulness as she came to the end of her mother's letter, that made Barker look at her with curious eyes. The little girl's face was glowing with pleasure, and her voice trembled with excitement as she inquired—

"Where are my aunts, Barker?"

"They are both out, miss. Have you good news, Miss Marigold?"

"Very good news. Would you like to hear what it is? Well, then, my brothers have had an invitation to spend a month at Hastings, and they are going next week!"

"I'm sure I'm very glad if you are, miss," Barker replied, secretly wondering why Marigold should be so wildly excited at what seemed to her a very ordinary matter.

Marigold waited impatiently enough for her aunts' return. Meanwhile, she went upstairs to her own room, and after taking off her hat and smoothing her hair, perused her mother's letter again. Presently she heard her aunts come in, and ask if she had returned from school yet.

"Here I am, Aunt Mary! Here I am, Aunt Pamela!" she cried.

There was a note of joy in the bright young voice; and Marigold's face, as she bent over the banisters and watched her aunts ascend the stairs, wore its sunniest smile.

"Please come into my room," she said. "I have had a letter from mother, and I want you both to hear what she says."

They followed her into her bedroom, and took the chairs she placed for them, wondering what good news she had received. Marigold perched herself on a corner of her bed, and proceeded to read her mother's letter aloud. After she had finished, there was a brief silence, then—

"I am glad your brothers are going to have a nice change," Miss Holcroft said, with a slightly nervous glance at her sister.

Miss Pamela turned her piercing dark eyes on Marigold, as she inquired—

"Is it pleasure on their account that has put you into such a state of excitement, child?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela! I felt so unhappy to think that I was going to have a holiday, and they were not! It seemed so hard for them! But now it has all come right, hasn't it? How good people are! Fancy that Mrs. Munro thinking of our boys!"

"She must be a kind-hearted woman," Miss Holcroft remarked cordially.

"Yes," Miss Pamela agreed thoughtfully. "These Munros are rich people, it seems?" she added.

"I suppose so, Aunt Pamela. I remember Neil Munro because he was very friendly with Rupert and Lionel, and used to come home with them sometimes, but I did not know anything about his mother or father."

Miss Pamela looked contemplative. She sat tapping the ground with one foot and following the design of the carpet with the top of her sunshade.

"How the boys will love it by the sea!" Marigold continued, smiling, as she pictured their enjoyment. "I daresay they will have bathing, and boating, and fishing, and all the rest of it! I don't know that I ever felt so glad about anything before!"

"Your mother will be lonely without them," Miss Holcroft said gently.

"Yes; but she will not mind that if they are happy."

"Mary," said Miss Pamela abruptly, "if these boys are going to have a holiday, and visit rich people, they will probably want new clothes, and a little money in their pockets, eh?"

"Of course they will, Pamela," her sister agreed; adding, with an appealing glance and in a lower tone, "We must remember they are poor Rupert's sons."

"Marigold shall make them a present," Miss Pamela continued. "You shall write to your mother to-night, child, and enclose something for her to spend on the boys."

Marigold grew red with mingled emotions—surprise and pleasure being the chief.

"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" she cried.

Little maid Marigold

"OH, MOTHER, MOTHER, DO NOT SEND ME AWAY FROM YOU!"

LITTLE MAID MARIGOLD

BY

E. H. STOOKE

New York

American Tract Society

150 Nassau Street

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