M432

“FRANCES CAUGHT SIGHT OF A DARK FIGURE ADVANCING.”

A GIRL OF TO-DAY

BY
ELLINOR DAVENPORT ADAMS

Author of “Miss Secretary Ethel”, “Comrades True”, “Colonel Russell’s Baby”, “May, Guy, and Jim”, &c.

WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY GERTRUDE DEMAIN HAMMOND, R.I.

LONDON
BLACKIE & SON, Limited, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
GLASGOW AND DUBLIN
1899

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

A GIRL OF TO-DAY.

CHAPTER I.
BROTHER AND SISTER.

Here you are, then, Sis! Here you are—at last!”

The final words, spoken in a tone of complete satisfaction, accompanied a daring dive of hand and arm through the open window of the still moving railway-carriage.

“You ridiculous boy! We are only five minutes behind time!” Frances seized the intruding hand in a firm grip; and, as the train stopped, leaned out of the window to bestow a sisterly hug. “Its good to see you, dear! How brown and jolly you look! The country agrees with you, Austin; I thought it would.”

“Well, I don’t know. It was fearfully slow here at first, after Allerton. Of course, now—. Oh, come along, Frances! I’ve heaps to tell you, once we’re on the road. I wouldn’t bring the trap, because I wanted time for a good talk all to ourselves; and I knew the mile walk from the station to Woodend wouldn’t frighten you. Toss out the parcels! I suppose you’ve a few dozen. What, only one? Hallo! they’ve taught you something at school.”

Frances nodded her head reflectively. “Much you know about that yet, my son. Wait awhile, and I’ll enlighten you!”

Delivering herself of this promise,—which was received by the boy with an impudent little shrug,—the girl sprang to the platform in a style strongly suggestive of past triumphs in her school gymnasium, and then proceeded to catch her brother by the shoulders and give him what she called “a proper look-over”.

Austin stood the examination well. Though slightly built, he was broad of chest and straight of limb; his blue eyes were bright and clear; and the weakness of his mouth was usually discounted by the sunny smile which readily parted his lips. Nearly three years younger than his sister, and accustomed to look to her for companionship, guidance, and encouragement, Austin had found the months of their separation so real a trial that his joy in their present meeting was particularly demonstrative. He remembered in a flash of thought half a score of promising projects which had been allowed to lapse until Frances should come home from Haversfield College. And now Frances was here in front of him, and surveying him with the steady gray eyes he knew and truly loved—Frances herself, no whit spoiled by her two terms at the famous school for girls, though in Austin’s mind there had lurked some fears of long skirts, hair “done up”, and—worse than all!—airs of condescending superiority and adult wisdom.

Frances did not look at all grown-up. She was just a healthy, happy lass of barely fourteen years; frankly preferring short frocks to long ones, and in no haste for the time when hair-dressing should become a troublesome solemnity. So far, life had made small demands on her individuality. At home, she had known no special duty except the care of Austin, who had been rather delicate in early childhood; at school, she had been one of many, fairly successful in her work, more than fairly successful at games and bodily exercises, and perhaps showing promise chiefly in a susceptibility to all those influences which tend to widen a young girl’s sympathies and draw out her intelligence. Frances had been fortunate in her recent experience—Haversfield is an excellent nursery for the best kind of girlhood. Its many house-mistresses are chosen by the Principal with extreme care; and Frances had been under the charge of Miss Cliveden, a clever, cultivated, and liberal-minded woman, whose training was quite as valuable for heart as for head. The brightest-witted, most thoughtful, and most generous pupils of Haversfield were proud to call themselves “Miss Cliveden’s girls”.

“Is Mamma all right?” inquired Frances, releasing her brother after a little satisfied shake.

“Right as she can be. Ten deep in tea-drinkings, and particular friends with all the world. No, not with all the world—with the most particular world of Woodend. She’s ‘At Home’ this afternoon, you know. First and third Thursdays, and all that twaddle—”

“Austin!” laughed Frances, faintly reproachful.

“Well, it is! Fancy a lot of women staring at each other over tea-cups and cake, and two odd men tripping about among the crew and wishing themselves at Kamschatka!”

“Who are the two?”

“Any tame sparrows caught in the trap.”

“You ought to watch them, and learn what you’ve to grow up to.”

“Catch me!”

“But Mamma is well?” persisted Frances. “And she likes Woodend, and her new house—you’re sure?”

“Oh, I suppose so!” exclaimed Austin, showing signs of impatience.

“She left Allerton for your sake, and I think you ought to remember that.”

“Don’t preach!”

“Don’t you be ridiculous,” said Frances sharply. “I’ve no patience with boys who call every sensible word ‘preaching’.”

“I’ve no patience with girls who are everlastingly ‘sensible’.”

Frances’s frowns vanished, and smiles came instead. Her sisterly prerogative of “preaching” was so seldom exercised that Austin usually took her mild rebukes like a lamb. His laugh echoed hers just now, and he gave an affectionate hug to the arm he clung to. Brother and sister were walking at a good pace along the straggling white road to the village.

“Never mind, Sis. You shall preach as much as you like—to-day. And Mater is really all right—she must be. She has loads of friends already.”

“Loads! In a tiny place like this!” commented Frances, gazing about her. On either hand stretched the green meadows, watered by brooks filled with recent rain; in front, the country spread smiling and serene under the brilliant sun of late July. Immediately before them, the road dipped into a shallow wooded valley, studded on both sides with houses of every degree. Farther off, above the trees of Fencourt Park (the home of Woodend’s chief landlord), could be descried the broken ridges of Rowdon Common. All these interesting facts were duly pointed out by Austin, with the justifiable airs and pride of a resident; while Frances, as a new-comer, merely listened or asked sagacious questions.

“That’s where we hang out,” remarked the boy elegantly, while waving his hand towards a long, picturesquely-built house on the opposite side of the valley. “It’s a tidy crib, with lots of room.”

“A crib—with lots of room! A pretty confusion of terms, young man.”

“I’ve bagged a jolly place for larks,” continued Austin eagerly. “There’s a stove in it and a splendid big table, and a bath-room next door, which will just do for our photography.”

The boy’s face, uplifted to his sister’s, was full of the happy enthusiasm which feels itself secure of sympathy; and Frances’s heart beat high with pleasure because her welcome home was of this joyful sort. For the absent school-girl, like her brother, had known some fears—lest the six months’ parting should have taught Austin to do without her. The boy had proved a poor correspondent; and it was not easy for Frances with her warm, unselfish temperament, to realize that unanswered letters did not necessarily signify failing affection.

“That’s the church—it’s splendid for photographing, if only one could get the lines of the tower straight. And there’s the rectory alongside. The Rector’s very old; but a good sort, like the curate.”

“The curate is Mr. Carlyon, your tutor, isn’t he? Oh, Austin, do you like having lessons with him?” asked Frances, with intense interest. Her reverence for knowledge had grown of late, and she wanted, not unnaturally, to find out whether in this direction Austin’s steps had progressed with her own.

“I like it well enough. You see,” he added awkwardly, “I’m not exactly a grind; one must use one’s wits, but I think mine go best with my hands. Only, Carlyon was a swell at Oxford, and he’s got a way of making one think one wouldn’t mind being a swell too.”

Frances looked relieved and quite contented.

“Then he knows a straight ball when he sees one,” Austin continued, “and he’s a crack with his bat. Then when lessons are on, he doesn’t drone away everlastingly about dead-and-gone chaps. There’s one of his cranks we all approve of, somehow.”

“What is it?”

“We’ve half an hour every day for what he chooses to call ‘current events’. Carlyon tells us what’s going on in the world, reads bits out of papers and talks them over, and gives marks to the fellows who remember best.”

“Oh, Austin! I hope you get most marks!” interrupted Frances, with the utterly unreasonable ambition of a sister. Austin felt that he was wanting, and replied grumpily:

“Hang it, I’d like to know what chance I have! The other chaps hear things at home. Mater won’t let me look at a paper, and never talks to me about what she reads herself.”

“Never mind,” said Frances, “I’ll hunt out the news for you, and read the things up, and send you off all ready crammed. I shall like doing it.”

“I know you will,” groaned Austin. “I say, Frances, you’ll shine like the sun at our ‘symposia’—I hope you like that pretty word, Ma’am!”

“What are your symposia?” chuckled Frances, beginning to think Woodend couldn’t be so much behind Haversfield itself.

“Why, on Saturday mornings Carlyon takes his boys, and his sister takes her girls, and we’ve a meeting in the big rectory dining-room. Then the lot of us talk like fits about those blessed ‘current events’ our respected teachers have been driving into us all the week. It’s prime fun, once we get started. Carlyon and his sister do the starting. When they’re on opposite sides, we’ve rare larks; for they pitch into one another like mad—quite civilly, you know. Then we chaps and Miss Carlyon’s crew follow suit, and go for one another in fine style. Gracious! You should have heard Max Brenton and Florry Fane last Saturday! It was our breaking-up day, and we had an extra grand symposium. Max and Florry are no end good at argufying.”

Frances heard the names of these friends of Austin with the pleasant anticipations natural to a sociable girl just about to make trial of a new home, new surroundings, new companions. She hoped this “Max and Florry” would be “good” for something besides “argufying”—good for comradeship of the only kind possible to a nature whose characteristics were deep-rooted and strong. Half-hearted alliances were outside Frances’s comprehension; her love and trust must be given freely and fully, or not at all.

“In her last letter Mamma told me I was to be one of Miss Carlyon’s girls after the holidays. That will seem funny at first, now that I have got used to a big school. It was nice at Haversfield, Austin. I want to stay with Mamma and you, of course, else I should like to go back. Miss Cliveden—my house-mistress—was so jolly. She used to make one feel as if one wanted to be of some good, if one could.”

“You can be of lots of good here,” said Austin comfortably. “It’s no sense a fellow having a sister if she’s away at school. Max says if he had a sister he’d think himself lucky, for she would be able to teach him how to make a bed properly. That’s a thing he often needs to do for his worst cases, and he does not quite understand it.”

“What do you mean?”

Austin declined to explain. At the moment he was too much occupied with his own affairs to have leisure for Max’s. He was eager to convince Frances that she could be of supreme use to him personally; and Frances, before whose eyes had lately gleamed a vision of a wider range for her girlish energies, listened, and sympathized, and promised, as only the best of sisters could. She was quite sure that Austin wanted her most of all. He always had wanted her, and she never had disappointed him.

They had been brought up together, and educated by the same governesses and tutors until a few months before this story opens. Then Austin’s childish delicacy had for the first time threatened to become serious, and his mother had carried him off to London for distinguished medical advice. For years Mrs. Morland’s home had been in Allerton, a large provincial town to which she had first been attracted because it was the dwelling-place of an old friend, who had since passed away. The London doctors recommended a country life for Austin; and, after some weeks of search for a suitable spot, Mrs. Morland fixed on Woodend, a village which had everything desirable in the way of soil, air, and scenery. Her household gods were removed from Allerton to Woodend in the course of a bright April, and she and her son settled down in the pretty home she had bought and furnished.

During all this time of unrest, Frances had been quietly at work at Haversfield, where she had been sent in order that her education might not be interrupted. She had spent the Easter holidays with a school friend, because at the time her mother was superintending the removal to Woodend, and Austin was paying a visit to a Scotch cousin.

If Mrs. Morland had guessed under what influences her daughter would come, she certainly would not have sent her to Haversfield. Not only had she no regard for the “learned lady”, but she set no value at all upon the womanly accomplishments which were unable to secure social prestige. Miss Cliveden’s definition of “society” would have astonished Mrs. Morland; and her gospel of labour, preached with her lips and in her life, would have seemed to Frances’s mother uniquely dull and quixotic.

Miss Cliveden taught her girls to love work, to love it best when done for others, and to reverence all work truly and faithfully accomplished. The nobility of honest labour was her favourite theme, and the allurements of altruistic toil the highest attraction she could hold out to her young scholars. As her pupils were all in the upper forms of the college, Frances was one of the youngest of them, and Miss Cliveden took a great liking for the frank-hearted, winning lass. Thrown chiefly among the elder girls, Frances soon caught their spirit and shared their ambitions, while remaining in ways and thoughts a thorough child.

By the time Mrs. Morland was comfortably settled in Woodend, she began to grow tired of petting and coddling a wayward, restless boy. Scotland and the country air had brought Austin back to fair health, and his bright eyes and rosy cheeks assured his mother that her sacrifice had not been in vain. Mrs. Morland loved ease of mind and body. She thought it time her boy should return to his lesson-books, and that Frances—so soon as her second term at Haversfield should be over—should come home to help him.

The terms of his father’s will had decreed that Austin should be educated privately. Mr. Morland had disliked public schools. His wife regretted the social disadvantage, but could not overrule her husband’s decision; and she began to face the trouble of looking out for a new tutor. Before she had looked long, she discovered that Mr. Carlyon, the young curate of Woodend church, took pupils; and Austin became one of them for the greater part of the summer term.

“What sort of place is Woodend?” asked Frances.

“Oh, well—nice enough. Some jolly fellows among the boys, and plenty of girls to match. I dare say you’ll like Florry Fane, anyhow. She has lots of pluck, and doesn’t bounce, though she’s no end clever. Then there’s roly-poly Betty Turner—and May Gordon—and the First Violin.”

“Who’s the First Violin?”

“We’ve a boys’ and girls’ band, and she’s the leader. Everybody calls her the First Violin. She hardly moves without her fiddle; and she can play.”

“What about your fiddle? Haven’t you joined the band, lazy imp?”

“Had to; Miss Carlyon wouldn’t let me off. Besides, it’s good fun. We’ve a master to train us, and he gives me lessons alone as well. I practise sometimes,” added Austin hastily, “so you needn’t worry.”

Frances felt on this golden afternoon even less inclined than usual to “preach”, so she let the fiddle pass.

“Are there any poor folks in the village?” she inquired.

“Crowds!—at least, Max says so. He’s always abusing Sir Arthur Fenn—chap who lives at Fencourt, the biggest place about. That’s to say, Fencourt and most of Woodend belong to him; but he’s hardly ever here. He’s got a grander place somewhere, and that’s why he doesn’t care much about this one, and won’t do much for the people.”

“What a shame!”

“I don’t know,—they’re such a rough lot, no decent folk would want to go near them.”

“I should!” declared Frances warmly. “I’d love to try to help people who were very poor and miserable.”

“Gracious!” cried Austin, laughing merrily. “I declare, you’re as bad as Max. He’ll show you the way about, if you want to be mixed up in charity soup and blankets!”

“Why!—what should a boy know about such things?” said Frances, laughing too.

“Max isn’t a boy, as you’ll soon discover. He’s the boy. The one and only Max Brenton. My grammar doesn’t amount to much, but I know Max is of the singular number.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s the son of Doctor Brenton—the one and only son of the one and only doctor!”

“Is Dr. Brenton as singular as Max?”

“More so, my dear!—yes, if possible, more so!” returned Austin, grimacing expressively. “You see, they’ve brought each other up, and it’s sort of mixed which is which. So they’re ‘the old Doc’ and ‘the young Doc’ to all Woodend,—and a jolly good sort they both are!” continued the boy heartily. “If Max weren’t always so fearfully busy, he’d be the chummiest chum a fellow could want.”

“What is he so busy about?” asked Frances, enjoying the description of this mysterious Max.

“Why—soup and blankets!”

“Nonsense!”

“Fact.”

“You are a provoking scamp!”

“Respected student of distinguished Haversfield (as Florry would say), if you put me on to construe for an hour I couldn’t ‘render into tolerable English’ the sayings and doings of Max Brenton—the one and only Max Brenton! He’s not to be understood. You must just take him as you find him; and if you don’t meet him to-day, hope you’ll come across him to-morrow. And now, don’t you want to know if the tennis-court is in good order, and if you’re going to have cake for tea?”

Frances laughed, and yielded herself up to home matters. For a time the brother and sister exchanged question and answer at a great rate, and held a lively discussion as to the possibilities of Elveley. Austin was full of talk about his chosen playroom and its entrancing conveniences. Frances planned the arrangement of cunning nooks for her personal possessions, and promised to give her whole mind to the study of photography, until she had solved the problems presented by the camera which had been a present to Austin from the Scotch cousin.

The young pair chuckled and chattered like magpies, and were so deep in their concerns that a boy, coming at full speed round a corner from the village, almost ran into them before he attracted their attention.

“Hallo!” cried Austin, “there’s Max!”

“The one and only Max?”

“No other. What’s in the wind now? Small-pox or scarlet-fever?”

“How fast he runs!”

“Max hardly ever walks—he hasn’t time. Hi! Hallo!”

Austin slipped his hand from Frances’s arm, dived adroitly on one side, and managed to catch his friend in headlong course.

“Hallo!” panted Max, in return. “So sorry, old chap; I didn’t see it was you.” He disengaged himself and stepped with outstretched hand towards Austin’s sister. “And this is Miss Frances?” he continued, smiling frankly.

“Rather!” remarked Austin, with a certain gracious condescension, as becomes one whose sister is of the right sort to make sisterless fellows envious. “I’ve been telling her what a singular number you are; and she wants to go shares in your soup-and-blanket business.”

“It’s awfully jolly of her,” said Max, who had meanwhile exchanged with Frances a comrade’s grasp. “We wanted some more girls badly in Woodend.”

“Humph!” said Austin slyly.

“At all events, we wanted a girl,” insisted Max.

“Frances isn’t a girl, she’s the girl; the one and only Frances, who will soon be the sworn ally of the one and only Max.”

“All the better for me!” laughed Max. “Will you really, though, Miss Frances?”

“I’d like to,” replied the girl, smiling at this busy boy’s pleasant, eager face.

“I’ll hold you to it,” declared Max. “I must say good-bye, for see here!”

Laughing heartily, Max tapped his bulging pockets.

“What is it?” inquired Frances.

“Pills and potions!—so I must cut!” He lifted his cap, sang out a gay farewell, and was off at his former excellent pace.

“What a nice boy!” exclaimed Frances, still beaming. “At least, of course I don’t know much about him yet, but he looks nice.”

“He’s a good sort,” said Austin again, with emphasis.

“Why does he carry his father’s medicines? Hasn’t Dr. Brenton a proper person—?”

“Max thinks he is a proper person.”

“What does he do about them when he’s at school?”

“He doesn’t come to school, except for a few hours in the week. He learns classics and mathematics with us—his father has taught him the rest. Dr. Brenton couldn’t possibly get on all day without Max. You’ll soon understand why. Now, Frances, we’ll be in Woodend directly. I hate crawling down a hill when I’m hot, so I’m going full pelt till I get to the bottom of this one. Don’t you hurry. I’ll wait for you there.”

“Will you, though?” demanded Frances with scorn. And Austin’s last fears about the effects of Haversfield vanished when his sister darted forward, overtook him easily, passed him triumphantly, and made her entry into Woodend at a speed which showed no concern either for her sailor-hat or her dignity.

“I said she was the Frances!” murmured Austin, as with a great affectation of indifference he jogged along behind.

CHAPTER II.
BOYS AND GIRLS TOGETHER.

Though he counted the Doctor’s son as first and chief, Austin undoubtedly had plenty of friends; and since the time of his coming to Woodend he had done his best to prepare the way for Frances by industriously singing her praises. The young people who had managed hitherto to exist in the village without either Austin or Frances might have been severely bored but for the agreeable curiosity roused by Austin’s descriptions of his absent sister. The Woodend boys were really anxious to make the acquaintance of so remarkable a girl. The Woodend lassies, having a good opinion of Austin, were willing to expect great things of Austin’s sister. Both boys and girls indulged the hope that the new-comer into their little world might rouse in it some pleasant stir.

They knew that they needed badly a stimulus of some sort to give fresh energy to their rather monotonous lives. They had their games and pastimes, like other youngsters; but these suffered in attraction for want of competition. The cricket-team and tennis-club rarely found rivals with whom they might contend in honourable warfare. Woodend was not exactly remote; but it had a special population of upper-class residents, who loved its pure air and fine scenery, and had no neighbours of like tastes and habits in the villages near at hand. The young folks played and worked contentedly enough among themselves as a rule; but they were growing just a little tired of each other, and there was nobody to lead.

The girls—poor things!—were in worst case. The boys, when they had turned fourteen or fifteen, were usually sent to a public school. The girls remained at home, with so much time on their hands that they could not even enjoy the luxury of being idle—it was too common an experience.

The Carlyons—Edward and Muriel—were working, in part, a reformation. Edward Carlyon, Master of Arts of Oxford University, had established a small private school for boys; Muriel Carlyon, sometime student of Girton College, and graduate of London, had done as much for the girls. The Woodend youngsters of good degree flocked to Wood Bank,—formerly the home of an artist,—where Edward taught his boys in the big, dismantled studio, and Muriel consecrated a couple of fair-sized rooms to her girls. The coming of Austin Morland, who, though only in his twelfth year, had a certain talent for leadership, had waked up the boys’ schoolroom, and plans for the summer holidays had been more ambitious than usual.

Frances could not do anything striking for the girls’ schoolrooms at present, since they were shut, and their presiding genius was away from home. But Austin’s sister, finding herself welcomed in a fashion which showed how unstinted had been Austin’s recommendations, was determined to do her best to justify his loyalty. She was soon the happy potentate of an acquiescent kingdom, and honestly anxious to make good use of her unexpected influence. Besides being the leader in every frolic, she tried to interest herself in everybody’s hobbies and everybody’s fancies.

Most of her new friends belonged to one or other of the many juvenile organizations which now make a real effort—whose value may be appreciated by social economists of a later date—to concern themselves in the welfare of the poor and suffering. Frances had caught from her elder comrades at Haversfield a girlish enthusiasm for this kind of toil. She threw herself warmly into the diversions of Florry Fane’s set—who could understand poetry, dabble in oil and water colours, and write stories. She dressed dolls for Betty Turner’s hospital box, she collected butterflies and beetles with Guy Gordon, she studied rabbits with Frank Temple, she joined the Children’s Orchestra and was a great admirer of the First Violin.

But the best of Frances’s heart went into her promised alliance with Max Brenton. Max was the blithest boy in all Woodend, by far the busiest and the most popular. Even Austin Morland, bright of face and gay of manner as was the lad, could not, and would not, have stepped into the place filled by Max. Meet the Doctor’s son when and where you might, you were bound to feel happier for having done so.

Elveley was the largest house in Woodend proper; it possessed ample garden ground, and neat outbuildings in the rear. Its possessor had usually been the person of most importance in the village, and thus the coming of the new owner had been awaited with curiosity. Mrs. Morland had been at some pains to send in advance her credentials as to family and position. She was a woman who placed extravagant value on social esteem, and she had voluntarily stunted her intelligence and narrowed her views for fear of perilling her own prestige by shocking any antique prejudice in her neighbours. She had not much sympathy with the special affairs of childhood; but when she turned aside from her individual interests to see how matters went with her boy and girl, she generally found reason for complacency.

Now that she had settled in Woodend, it was in harmony with her wishes and instincts that Frances should be to the girls such a leader as Mrs. Morland had become to their elders, and that Austin’s careless good-humour should assure his popularity. If her children had been dull and commonplace, she would have felt herself an injured person. Because they were neither, she was ready to be indulgent and compliant. They had plenty of pocket-money, and were seldom refused a petition; and though they rarely spent with their mother more than an hour or so in the day, their food and clothing were carefully attended to by responsible people, and their education was the best within reach. Frances and Austin were not aware that they missed anything; and they nourished for their mother a love which, if it depended rather on tradition than on fact, was sufficiently real to make their home dear and fairly bright.

The big playroom in Mrs. Morland’s delightful old house soon became the headquarters of every juvenile institution. Cricket, football, and tennis clubs kept their archives in its table-drawers; its shelves harboured a choice lending-library, contributed to by every owner of a story-book; its corners saw the hatching of every plot, harmless or mischievous. Further, it was within its walls that Frances—intent at first only on aiding Max, but with wider ambition by and by—founded and maintained her prosperous club, the Woodend Society of Altruists.

“I hope the name is fine enough,” remarked Austin critically.

“You don’t think it sounds priggish?” inquired Frances in alarm. “It’s what the Haversfield girls called their club, and I thought we might just copy.”

“Of course, it’s a first-rate name,” declared Max kindly.

“What are Altruists?” asked in humble tones a small and rosy-cheeked boy.

“They are only people who try to help others,” replied Frances; and this simple explanation, given with a gentle sincerity of voice and manner, seemed to satisfy everybody. Indeed, everybody present at a fairly representative meeting of the Woodend young folks became an Altruist on the spot.

“What have we got to do?” said the rosy-cheeked boy anxiously.

“Sign our names in the book of the Society and keep the rules,” said Florry Fane. “Frances must sign hers first, because she’s the founder of the club.”

“Florry and I have written down the rules we thought might do,” said Frances modestly, “Florry is going to read them out, and then if any boy or girl will suggest improvements we shall be very much obliged.”

But nobody wished to improve the excellent rules drawn up by Frances and Florry. The words in which the Altruist Code was expressed were few, and so well chosen that no careless member could pretend either to have forgotten or to have misunderstood.

In becoming an Altruist everybody undertook to do his or her very best to lighten the loads of dwellers within or without the gates of happy Woodend homes. This was an ambitiously comprehensive scheme, but nothing less thorough would suit Frances and her allies. Nor did they intend that their new club should exist only on paper; and so their rules provided that by appropriate deeds alone could a continued membership be ensured.

The boys and girls were so truly in want of a fresh sensation to give zest to their holiday hours that they were in some danger of riding their new hobby-horse to death. The Altruists grew in number and flourished exceedingly. They found their parents ready with approval and support; and when they had passed through an embryo stage of rash philanthropic excitement, they settled down into a capital club, whose motto of “Help Others” was something more than a vain boast. Of course the new Society must have funds—how otherwise provide for necessary outlay? Members loyally sacrificed a percentage of pocket-money, which was liberally reinforced—at the instigation of Mrs. Morland—by adult subscriptions. The mothers of young Altruists searched their cupboards for old linen, blankets, and clothing, wherewith to start the Society’s stores. The fathers promised that appeals for fruit and flowers should have their best consideration. Dr. Brenton sent word through Max that he would accept as a “gratis” patient any sick person tended and cared for by an Altruist. Mrs. Morland, well pleased that Frances should enjoy the prestige owing to a founder, sent for a carpenter, and desired him to make any alterations the children might order, with the view of rendering their playroom satisfactory Headquarters for their club.

As soon as the Carlyons came home, Muriel was waited on by a deputation of her girls, who wanted her to be Honorary President of the Altruists. Miss Carlyon was very ready to agree, and to give Frances credit for a really bright idea.

“I don’t see why your club shouldn’t do ever such great things for the Woodend poor folk,” declared Muriel warmly. “I shall be proud to be one of you, and so will my brother; and you must count on us for all the help we can give.”

“Oh, Miss Carlyon!” said Frances shyly, “we thought perhaps we might just help you—a little.”

“We’ll help each other, dear. And then we shall be Altruists among ourselves. I can assure you, I think, besides being useful, we shall be very jolly.”

And so it proved. None of the club meetings were more spirited or more mirthful than those at which the Honorary President made her appearance; and the frequent presence of Edward Carlyon encouraged his boys to stand firmly by the Society, and to lose all fear that they were “benevolent prigs”, as they had been called by Jack Shorter. Jack was the only one of Carlyon’s boys who had possessed sufficient unamiability to remain outside the club. At last, finding himself sent to Coventry, Jack repented and became an embarrassingly active Altruist.

When the Wood Bank schoolrooms opened their doors for the autumn term, it was discovered that the Carlyons intended their support to be anything but “honorary”. They had fitted up a large basement room as a workshop for various handicrafts, and there the boys and girls learned to make all sorts of things for the Society’s stores. Out of doors, a shed held all kinds of necessary tools, and the young folks studied practical gardening, with intent to aid such villagers as might own neglected plots. Sewing-meetings produced a wonderful collection of garments, new and renovated, which helped to fill Frances’s clothing-cupboard. The juvenile choir and orchestra made free offers of their services; and lads and lassies with a talent for “reading and recitation” were in enormous request.

Frances’s days were busy and happy. She enjoyed her school-work with Muriel Carlyon, a teacher of the class to which she had grown accustomed at Haversfield. Muriel’s system of teaching was not without originality; and her love of outdoor occupations hindered her from possessing the traditional characteristics of a blue-stocking. Her brother Edward was a muscular, well-built young Englishman, whose college triumphs had not prevented respectable attainments with scull and bat. The Carlyons took a lively interest in their pupils, whom they treated and trained with a success which would have astonished primmer pedagogues. Their boys and girls trooped to school together, and often measured wits or muscles in their class-rooms or their play-grounds. Thus their friendships were closer and more sympathetic than those of lads and lassies usually are. They learned to appreciate one another’s tastes and dispositions, and to sacrifice individual whims to the common good.

Autumn drifted into winter with the coming of a bleak November. Football and hockey were in full swing in the playing-fields. The little ones had built their first snow-man; and the rubbing and oiling of skates followed careful studies of the barometer. The youngsters were now in some danger of forgetting the duties of their Society. Their time had suddenly assumed an incalculable value.

It was at this stage of affairs that Max Brenton one day made his appearance at the door of the club-room, wherein sat Frances busily posting up the Society’s accounts.

“If you please,” began Max in a great hurry, “may I have a blanket, two flannel petticoats, a three-year-old frock, and a pair of very large old boots?”

Frances wrinkled her forehead. “I’m sorry we have no flannel petticoats left, owing to a great demand. I can manage the other things, except the boots. We are quite out of very large boots. Couldn’t one of you boys learn shoemaking?”

“I fancy that would be a little rough on the village cobbler.”

“But the cobbler will do nothing he is not paid for; and poor folks cannot always pay. It would be very useful to have a shoemaker of our very own. We could buy our leather and make it into enormous boots. Gentleman-boots are really hardly any good to us.”

“That’s true. But, please, may I have the things? And I will try my best to persuade somebody to learn shoemaking.”

Frances rose, and stepped thoughtfully towards her cupboard. Thence, after some searching, she extracted a tiny garment of crimson serge, warmly lined and neatly finished. To this she added two pairs of knitted socks of the same cheerful hue.

“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Max, radiant. “May I really have these awfully swell things? You girls are bricks!”

“You boys helped to buy the stuff. I’m glad you like the colour,” continued Frances graciously, “because at the last sewing-meeting of our Society we decided that for the future all the clothing we make shall be scarlet or crimson, if it can be. It was Florry Fane’s idea. She said it would be ‘the badge of all our tribe’. We shall be able to tell our pensioners the moment we see them. For instance, next time I meet the little child who is to have this frock, I shall think, ‘There goes an Altruist baby!’”

“I see. And next time I come across a hoary old chap to whom you’ve given a crimson comforter, I shall say, ‘There goes an Altruist antediluvian!’”

“Well,” laughed Frances, “suppose you do? You’ll allow that our colour is becoming. It’s bright and picturesque; and by and by, when we’ve given away lots of crimson things, think how gay Woodend will look.”

“Oh, it will! As soon as a visitor reaches the favoured spot, he’ll cry, ‘Hullo! here’s an Altruist village!’”

“I hope he may. Now, tell me whom these things are for, because I must put the names down in our clothing book.”

Max, remembering certain private labours of his own, gazed in admiration at Frances’s neat records.

“The frock is for Polly Baker, child of Joseph Baker, a dweller in Lumber’s Yard, and sometime a tiller of the fields.”

Frances paused, her pen uplifted, and a serious expression on her face.

“But, Max, Miss Carlyon says the Altruists oughtn’t to help people who won’t help themselves. That Joseph Baker is a lazy, selfish, good-for-nothing.”

“I know the gentleman. You’ve described him mildly.”

“And Mr. Carlyon has got him work over and over again, but he always loses it.”

“No wonder, the drunken scamp!” muttered Max under his breath.

“He is as bad as he can be.”

“True, dear Madam Altruist. But that isn’t the fault of his daughter Polly, aged three.”

“Still, if Baker finds he can get his children fed and clothed for nothing, he will go on spending all his money in that dreadful inn in Lumber’s Yard.”

“He will go on doing that anyhow. Mr. Carlyon isn’t easily beaten, but he has given up Joseph Baker, Esquire. Meanwhile, Baker’s children would starve if it were not for charity. Frances, Polly is such a game little thing! You wouldn’t believe how she stands up to her brute of a father when she sees him ill-treat her mother. I’ve delivered her out of Baker’s clutches more than once.”

Frances gazed at the speaker, her eyes widely-opened and horrified.

“Max! You don’t mean he would hurt that baby?”

“Wouldn’t he? Doesn’t he, if he gets the chance? He’s a—a—beast! Beg pardon!”

“It’s fearful!” sighed Frances, pausing perforce on the threshold of the social problem which had risen before her. “He ought to be punished.”

“He will be, when I’m big enough to thrash him,” murmured Max; and Frances turned a face flushed with sympathy to this chivalrous lad. “But don’t let us punish our Altruist baby.”

“Oh, Max! When you wheedle—,” said the Altruist secretary, shaking her head. “Here are your things, and you must be responsible. Now, in return for your pleasant news about Baker, I’ll tell you something really nice. I have added up our funds, and I find we have quite a lot of money; so I am getting ready a list of ‘wants’, and to-morrow we will have a shopping expedition. We girls shall need large supplies of scarlet flannel and crimson serge to make into clothing for our Christmas presents. You boys are sure to require things for your workshops. We will take the pony-carriage and drive into Exham. As to-morrow will be Saturday, not many Altruists will care to leave the playing-fields; but you will come, won’t you, Max?”

“If Dad doesn’t want me.”

“And there will be Austin and Florry—four of us. You and Austin can get the things for your own work while Florry and I buy yards and yards of flannel and serge and calico.”

“Will there be room for us boys in the trap coming home?” inquired Max meekly. “I’d like to know whether, if the cargo weighs down the pony, you mean to sacrifice us or the flannel?”

“You, of course!”

“Then I’d better bring provisions for camping out. There’s a fall of the barometer, and all the village weather-prophets tell me we are to have snow; besides, there’s some rough road between here and Exham. Look out for storms to-morrow, Frances! Now, I’ll be off with my booty. Baker sold to a fellow-cad the last frock I begged for Polly; but I’ll dare him to touch this beauty. Keep your eyes open, and they’ll be gladdened by the sight of the Altruist baby!”

Max went away happy. All his father’s poor patients enjoyed his personal attentions, and not a few considered the Doctor’s son as good an adviser as the Doctor himself. Max tried to be discreet, but his boyish habit of telling the unvarnished truth to any village sneak or bully sometimes brought him into awkward predicaments.

CHAPTER III.
ADVENTURERS FOUR.

Surely only youth and health would look forward with glorious anticipations to a five-mile drive on a bitter winter day, in a little open carriage!

The four adventurous Altruists were certain they were going to enjoy themselves, and no sooner were they fairly on their way than they began to justify their own predictions. For the sake of extra excitement, they took it in turns to drive; but it was impossible for them to take it in turns to talk, so they all chattered at once. This did not help the driving, which was mixed in character. Nobody could quite tell, as the ribbons changed hands, what might be the next diversion; and, of course, this uncertainty was the best part of the fun. At last the pony settled, under the capable guidance of Florry, into a steady trot; and the Altruists settled, at the same propitious moment, into a steady discussion of their proposed Christmas feast for the Woodend villagers.

This feast had been for some weeks under consideration at the Society’s meetings, and the arrangement of its details was far advanced. The Altruists intended that it should be a grand manifesto of their good-will to all the working-folk.

“We are to have a present for everybody,” declared Austin loudly, “and we boys must do our share. I am making my third stool. No one can say that stools are not useful things in cottages.”

“But they will not furnish a house,” objected Max; “and I want very badly a complete rig-out for a two-roomed shanty. I have a man on my list who was sold up last week by his Jew of a landlord—old Fenn. Poor Johnson was a decent chap, but when they turned him out he just went to the bad.”

“He can’t have gone very far in a week,” remarked Austin, who had not taken kindly the allusion to his handiwork.

“He went to Fenn’s Home Farm, and tried to burn the ricks. Fortunately he didn’t succeed; and when Dad heard he was to be taken up, we went and begged Johnson off. We’re going bail for him, that if they’ll let him alone he’ll keep straight; and Dad has got him some rough work in the gardens. But his wife and child had to go to the workhouse; and now the idea is to start them all afresh in one of Ventnor’s little places. They’ll want only a few things to begin with. What do you say, Frances? Shall we give him one of Austin’s stools for a Christmas-box?”

“Something else as well,” said Frances, beaming on her ally.

“I don’t mind making him an extra big stool, which might do for a table,” said Austin graciously.

“Guy is mending-up some old chairs,” said Frances.

“Mamma will let me have one of her patchwork-carpets,” said Florry. “She makes them out of odd pieces begged from friends, and they are quite warm and cheerful.”

“Mrs. Temple offered me an old bedstead and bedding only the other day,” cried Frances. “How fortunate for poor Johnson! I’ll ask Mamma for a chest of drawers.”

“And the Altruists as a body can easily produce a ‘harlequin’ set of plates and cups and dishes,” said Florry.

“I have some spare pots and pans in my stores,” added Frances proudly. “I declare, Max, your friend sha’n’t wait till Christmas to set up housekeeping!”

“You are all awfully kind,” said Max gratefully. The boy’s eyes were actually moist, and he hung his head; but in a moment had recovered sufficiently to shout in vigorous crescendo:

“Your reins are crossed, Florry! Mercy on us, we’re in the ditch!”

They were not quite there, thanks to the pony’s objections to lead the way. Rough pulled his head free indignantly, and was allowed to steer his own course in peace.

The Altruist quartette presently arrived safely in Exham. Max, who was then the whip, made for a respectable inn, where the travellers left the much-enduring Rough to take a rest, while they attended to business.

“Ladies, do we have the honour of accompanying you?” asked Austin, with a grand bow; “or do we go off on our own hook?”

“As though we would take you two imps into shops with us!” said Frances. “Go and buy your things and we’ll get ours, then we can meet at Thorn’s and have tea. Thorn is our confectioner, and Mamma said we might order what we liked.”

“Good for Mater,” chuckled Austin. “But in the meantime, can you girls really do without us?”

“We’ll try to,” said Frances severely; “and mind you scamps keep out of mischief. Come on, Florry.”

The girls linked arms and marched off, affecting the superior and independent airs so tantalizing to the best of boys. Max and Austin watched their departure with mischievous eyes.

“They’re too cocky for anything,” declared Austin.

“I believe they’ll buy up all the red stuff in Exham,” said Max. “Observe the lofty tilt of Florry’s head. Mark the aggressive decision of Frances’s step. They’ll conquer or die!”

“I say, Max,” giggled irreverent Austin, “let’s tag on to them a bit. Our shopping won’t be a scrap of fun. We’ve just to leave an order at the timber-yard, and call in at the ironmonger’s for nails and screws and a few other things. Frances has disappeared into that big draper’s, and there goes Florry after her. Let’s get through our timber business, and then have a lark with the girls. We’ll make the counter-Johnnies sit up.”

“Won’t Frances be wild?”

“Not she!—come on, Max!” Away went the pair, arm in arm, with the mincing steps they intended as an imitation of their comrades’ sedate town manners.

Frances could bear a good deal, but her soul quailed when her eyes lighted on the figures of the two boys stealing up the shop in the wake of a frock-coated person, of whom they had just inquired where they should discover “the young ladies who were buying up the establishment’s entire stock of red flannel”.

“We have not yet finished our business,” remarked Austin, while he seated himself with easy grace on an offered chair; “but we could not resist peeping in as we passed to see how you girls were getting on.”

“We have not finished either,” said Frances, regarding her brother’s demure face uneasily. “We have bought our crimson serge and our calico, but we still want scarlet flannel and red knitting-wool. Also tapes, buttons, hooks, cottons, and needles.”

“I have bought a bradawl and a pound of French nails,” said Austin gravely. “I am yet in need of a yard-measure, a few miles of string, some boot-buttons, a shaving-strop, and a packet of tin-tacks.”

“For my part,” said Max, “I require a lawn-mower, a type-writer, a bottle of blacking, and a pork-pie.”

“With these few necessaries,” added Austin, “we hope to complete the persecuted Johnson’s start in housekeeping. And—Timbuctoo! I’d nearly forgotten his wife’s mangle!”

“A stool and a blanket to be thrown in promiscuous,” said Max; “and a few yards of crimson stuff for a table-cover would be received with thanks. Ah! and we have secured a very nice jam-pot for an ink-bottle. Further suggestions gratefully acknowledged.”

“When you boys try to be funny the result is sad,” said Frances, feeling her dignity compromised by the mirth on the cadaverous countenance of the shop-assistant, who had left off serving her in order to appreciate the young gentlemen’s sallies. “Come, Florry,” continued the ruffled damsel, “let’s try Mason’s for the flannel: Miss Carlyon said it was good there.”

The petrified assistant, seeing that the stern eyes of a superior hard-by were fixed on him, glanced appealingly at the boys, but Miss Morland kept sedately on her path to the door.

“Won’t he get a wigging!” laughed unrepentant Austin, following humbly in the rear. “I say, Max, this establishment will lose the Altruist custom. I back Mason’s for scarlet flannel!”

But Max was inclined to think the joke weak, and positively refused to peril the receipts of the draper across the road. Instead, he dragged off Austin to transact legitimate business; and the ironmonger had the benefit of their wit and wisdom for the next few minutes.

The girls were chattering briskly as they came out of Mason’s.

“It was a splendid bargain,” declared Frances, who, as an administrator of charity funds, had taken her first lessons in economy. “Fifty yards of scarlet flannel for fifty shillings! Did you see what a heap more they had of it? The man said it was ‘a manufacturer’s stock’.”

“I love manufacturers’ stocks!” ejaculated Florry.

“So do I, when they’re Altruist flannel,” said Frances fervently. “Now we had better go to meet the boys at Thorn’s. Poor boys! they have had no delicious bargains. Perhaps it is a little dull buying nails. I wish I hadn’t been huffy with Austin; boys hate prim, fussy sisters. I’ll tell you what, Florry, we’ll make it up to the poor things. We shall get first to Thorn’s, and we’ll order all the goodies they like best. Max prefers jam-sandwiches, and Austin likes méringues; and they’re both fearfully fond of very plummy cake. Thorn’s cake is capital.”

The girls walked on rapidly, and made, as they went, plans for the sumptuous entertainment of the boys.

“We’ll heap coals of fire on their heads,” said Florry. “They will be torn by an anguished repentance. Here we are. Look at those lovely chocolates in the window!”

“Let’s have loads of chocolates.”

“I like chocolate-almonds the best,” said Florry pensively; “they are superb.”

“The boys like toffy and hardbake and Turkish-delight. Do you know, Florry, I read in a tiresome book that the real Turkish-delight isn’t a bit like the English one! Wasn’t it horrid of the author to say so? I’ve never really enjoyed it since.”

“It was cruel.”

“And both Max and Austin love Scotch shortbread.”

“Perhaps Scotch shortbread isn’t a bit like the English.”

“It isn’t,” said Frances contemptuously; “but you can get the real thing at Thorn’s. Let’s go in. I don’t see the boys anywhere, so we shall have time to order a beautiful tea for them—jam-sandwiches, and méringues, and plummy cake, and shortbread, and toffy, and hardbake, and Turkish-delight. Oh! and Bath-buns and gingerbread. I should like a little bread-and-butter. The boys think it is not worth while to have any bread-and-butter when they are out for a lark.”

Frances pushed open the glass door and entered. “Florry,” she whispered, “do make haste into the side-room and secure the nicest table. Stay! I’ll come too; and if we lay a few parcels down nobody will steal our chairs. We must have the table next the window, it’s such fun watching the carriages and people in the street. We can come back to do our ordering.”

The girls advanced boldly to take by storm (if necessary) the chosen spot.

“Oh! I say! What—!”

The most popular table in Thorn’s private tea-room was already occupied. On two of the four chairs in front of it sat Max and Austin, bolt upright, their countenances wearing an expression of almost seraphic calm. The table was covered with good things. The girls looked, and saw jam-sandwiches, méringues, plum-cake, shortbread, Bath-buns, gingerbread, and a little—a very little—bread-and-butter. Glass sweetmeat dishes contained chocolate-creams, chocolate-almonds, toffy, hardbake, and Turkish-delight. Max mounted guard over a laden tea-tray.

No sooner did they behold the astonished faces of their comrades than the boys rose, and with their finest company manners offered the best places to the girls.

“Ladies,” said Austin, “we hurried here that we might have time to order a most beautiful tea for you. We have done our utmost. You see before you all the goodies you like best; and we have not even forgotten that Frances has a weakness for bread-and-butter.”

“Or that Florry adores chocolate-almonds.”

“We wished to show you,” said Austin, “that we bear no malice.”

“We wished,” said Max, “to heap coals of fire on your heads.”

The November day had drawn on to dusk before Frances could persuade herself and the others that it was time to start for home. The boys were despatched to fetch the pony-carriage, and requested to call on their way back for the biggest parcels, which would be awaiting them at the drapers’ shops. Frances and Florry summoned a smiling waitress, and asked her to fill some bags with the numerous goodies left from the feast.

“For the boys are sure to be hungry again before we reach home,” said Frances. “Snow has been falling for the last hour; and we shall have to drive cautiously along the country lanes, they are so dark. And poor Rough is not properly shod for the snow yet.”

The girls, with their bags and parcels, were standing ready at the door of the confectioners, and looking out with amused and interested faces as the boys drove up.

“I say,” cried Max, “it’s a good thing we brought lots of rugs and wraps—we’re in for a storm.”

“Really a storm, Max?” inquired Frances, feeling that she ought to provide prudence for the party. “Do you think we shall get home all right with just Rough? Oughtn’t we to leave him here and hire a proper horse and carriage from the hotel?”

“It might be safer,” admitted Max, “but it would be awfully slow.”

“I’m going to drive Rough,” said Austin promptly, “come with me who will.”

“I will,” cried Florry, whose eyes sparkled at the prospect of the mildest adventure.

“I’ll go with Frances,” said Max quietly.

“We’ll all go together,” decided Frances, satisfied with her virtuous suggestion. “Max had better drive, though; he knows the roads so well.”

The four packed themselves and their parcels tightly into the trap. Rough was already tossing his head in disgust with the rapidly-falling snow-flakes, which were driven by a bitter north wind into his eyes and ears, half-blinding him, and tickling him unpleasantly. The boys had proposed that the girls should take the front seat, because they would then have the wind behind them; but Frances insisted on giving her place to Austin, who was subject, when he caught cold, to a bad kind of sore throat.

The snow, which in the streets of Exham partially melted on the ground, already lay thickly on the country roads, where it froze as it fell. The pony-carriage had hardly turned into the narrow lanes leading in the direction of Woodend before the youngsters found that the storm, prophesied by Max, was on them. The snow was hurled at their heads by a cutting blast, which flung the heavy white flakes into deep drifts at the sides of the roads most exposed to it. The pace had to be very slow and the driving very careful; but Max’s attention was lured from his duty as charioteer when the merry talk of his companions invited him to join their discussions. The quartette were still warm and cosy among their rugs, and they were enjoying the faint trace of danger which gave zest to their adventurous journey.

Rough was not enjoying himself at all. The boys had strapped a small blanket over him, but this was not much of a protection from a winter storm. At length he came to a full stop at the foot of a hill, which he greatly objected to tackle with a carriage-load behind him. The young people took the hint, and sprang out. They were in a sheltered road, with trees overhead; but half-way up the hill some branches, brittle with frost, were snapped by the gale and blown down into the lane. One of the boughs struck Frances, another fell on Rough. Neither girl nor pony was hurt, but both might have been.

“Hallo!” called out Max, “that was no joke! I have known serious accidents from falling branches. We had better avoid these lanes bordered by great trees, and choose the more open roads. You know there are two ways to Woodend. The one by Rowdon Common is a little further round, but it will be safer both for Rough and for us.”

“Then we’ll take it,” said Frances; “for though you might get on all right without me if another bough came in my direction, I don’t know how you would manage without Rough.”

They climbed the rest of the hill, and then again settled themselves in the trap. A little further on, Max took the turning whence he could guide Rough home by the longer route. And now troubles began to descend on our Altruists. First, Rough turned sulky, and tried to loiter, refusing to respond heartily even when the whole quartette shouted encouragement; because he knew very well the quickest route to Woodend. Next, the carriage-candles began to flicker in a manner promising speedy extinction.

“Goodness!” murmured Austin, when this second fact was obvious to the party. “The stable-boy told me the candles were very short, and wanted to put in new ones; but I was in such a hurry, I said they would just do.”

There was a chorus of reproachful groans.

“Suppose we put out one of the lights?” suggested sensible Florry. “If we burn the two separately, they’ll last longer.”

Even this ingenious resource did not greatly prolong the time during which the pony and Max were able to see their way. When the second candle failed him, the driver pulled up, and peered forward into the darkness.

“If you could see me, my friends,” he remarked ruefully, “you would notice that I am looking serious.”

“Then perhaps it’s just as well that the light of your countenance has gone out with the candles, Max,” said Florry. “If you could see us, you would know that we are not particularly cheerful.”

“Oh, come!” cried Austin, “let’s keep up our spirits somehow. What are you going to do, Max?”

“Lead Rough!” laughed the other boy. “I ought to know ‘every foot of the ground’, as people say; but it’s only when folks are out in a blinding snowstorm on a pitch-dark evening that they discover the shakiness of their geography. However, I know we must soon turn to the right, and then keep on straight up another hill to Rowdon Common. Our road borders the Common for half a mile, and then branches off downhill again. Once we are clear of the Common, we shall be all right.”

They were not to reach that condition very easily. Max led Rough onward, and found the necessary turning to the right; and along the uphill road the youngsters all walked, to lighten the pony’s burden, until Frances took alarm on Austin’s account. After much persuasion she induced the boy to get back into the trap, and Florry to go with him to spare his pride. She and Max trudged on side by side. Presently both observed that Rough showed signs of distress. Though close to the little animal they could hardly see him, but they could hear his laboured breathing.

“Hallo! he is going rather lame,” said Max. “Surely he can’t have had a stone in his shoe all this time? We’ll stop and find out.... Why! this is worse than a stone—he has lost a shoe!”

There was nothing to be done now, except to let the pony go at his own pace, and keep him to the side of the road where the snow lay thinnest. At a very leisurely rate the party journeyed up the remainder of the hill, Rough stumbling badly every now and then.

“Here we are, at last!” sighed Max, as the road again became level, and the increased severity of the storm, reaching them across the high, open country, told the travellers that they were on the edge of Rowdon Common. “We have a rough stone wall on one side of us now, and a pretty wide ditch on the other; so we must jog along carefully.”

Max and Frances both decided to go on walking; and Florry, after whispering persuasions to Austin, joined them, in order to relieve Rough a little more.

Poor Austin’s temper suffered from his indignation at this attempt on the girls’ part to “coddle” him. The liveliest recollections of his latest bad throat never sufficed to keep him out of danger if he possibly could get into it. Max and his companions just then halted for a moment under lee of the wall, intending to give Rough a breathing-time; and Austin, in a fit of impatience, seized the reins as they hung loose, and tugged them heedlessly.

The culprit’s ill-temper vanished as he and the trap and the pony swerved all together and turned clean over into the ditch, now half-covered by a deep drift. Frances and the others, in the better light of the open ground, saw the rapid movement of the little carriage, and for an instant held their breath; then peals of laughter from Austin assured them that he was safe, and the three rushed to the rescue.

Austin pulled himself out of the snow, and wriggled from Frances’s grasp.

“I’m all right, Sis; don’t worry! Damp? Oh, well, not particularly. I’m going to help Max to get Rough on his legs. This is rough on Rough, isn’t it? Ho, ho!”

But Frances, who knew that her brother was something more than “damp”, could hardly speak. Her sufferings were far greater than the patient’s when Austin had quinsy; and she blamed herself bitterly for not insisting on the obviously prudent course she had suggested in Exham. A strong carriage and sturdy horse would long ago have conveyed the quartette safely to Woodend; and now here they were, up on the Common, exposed to the force of the storm, and with no prospect of speedy escape. Austin would be certain to take cold if his damp clothes were not soon dried. The poor pony, after his fall and fright, would surely be quite disabled.

Indeed, Rough, when again on his feet, stood shivering and snorting, and positively refused to move further.

“I’m afraid he’s used up,” said Max anxiously; “and I think—really I do—that we shall be in the same plight if we try to struggle against the storm. The wind is a perfect hurricane up here, and freezingly cold. Girls, I believe we had better spread our macintoshes on the snow, roll up in our rugs, and bivouac in the shelter of the wall. It is so low it will not protect us unless we squat on the ground.”

The youngsters were all in agreement, and at once set to work to carry out Max’s plan. The macintoshes were spread, the carriage-cushions fetched to provide seats, the parcels were ranged to act as “cover” on the exposed side, rugs and wraps were dealt out to everybody, and the bags of “goodies” were thankfully seized. While Austin and the girls finished the camp, Max laid the thick skin carriage-mat along Rough’s back, fastened it round him with his own blanket, and led the pony close up to the wall.

The buns and cakes were distributed by Frances, who had no heart to eat, but knew that moaning over Austin would not help him. He was wedged in tightly between the girls, and submitted like a lamb to be enveloped in wraps. Max took the outside place, and fed Rough with biscuits.

In spite of all precautions, the little group grew colder and damper; in spite of the most energetic attempts at cheerfulness, their spirits sank lower. The storm showed no signs of abating. While the youngsters were slowly being forced to recognize that their position was not only uncomfortable but perilous, a strong though flickering light, as of a powerful lantern swayed by the wind, was seen approaching them along the road from the direction of Woodend. The four watched it with keen eagerness. It came nearer—came close. It was a lantern, indeed, fixed to the front of a great hooded waggon drawn by two powerful horses.

The pony-carriage still lay half in, half out of the ditch. Max sprang to his feet and ran forward to warn the waggoner, who, having caught sight of the obstructions in his path, was already drawing up by the wall. The man was known to Max as a servant employed by a big farmer of the neighbourhood, and the boy lost no time in shouting to the amazed driver a cheery greeting and a peremptory demand for help out of his own dilemma. Not many words were needed. Job Benson recognized Max, and was quite willing to aid him and his companions.

Max rushed back to the others.

“Hurry, Austin! Up with you, girls! Here’s relief for the garrison at last! This waggoner is going to Rowdon Smithy before turning across country to his master’s farm; and he says he will take us as far as the smithy, where we shall get safe shelter until we’ve a chance to make our way home. We’ll tether Rough to the waggon, and the sight of his fellow-gees will encourage him to follow them. We must leave the trap in the ditch till to-morrow. Now let’s make haste, or the horses won’t stand.”

Rugs and shawls and bundles were grasped by the willing hands of the rescued travellers. Into the great waggon and its welcome shelter climbed the girls and boys as best they could, while the good-natured driver offered everybody a helping hand and heartily bade the whole troop welcome.

“I know the old man at the smithy,” said Max to his comrades, “and I’m sure he’ll give us a rest and a warm. Dad’s attending him just now; nothing much wrong but old age, you know. His name is William East, and he has a grandson, Jim, who is no end of a nice chap.”

The waggon followed a road across the Common for a time, and then, turning down a lane to lower ground, touched one of the country roads to Exham. Standing level with the road, a little back among a group of trees, were the cottage and outbuildings of Rowdon Smithy.