CHAPTER XVI. – LOST
Phil’s mother was in every sense a weak woman. She was not strong enough to be either very good or very bad; she had a certain amount of daring, but she had not sufficient courage to dare with success. She had a good deal of the stubbornness which sometimes accompanies weak characters, and when she deliberately set her heart on any given thing, she could be even cruel in her endeavors to bring this thing to pass. Her husband and the elder Rupert Lovel, of Belmont, near Melbourne, were brothers. Both strong and brave men, they had married differently. Rupert’s wife had in all particulars been a helpmeet to him; she had brought up his children to be brave and strong and honorable. She suffered much, for she was a confirmed invalid for many years before her death; but her spirit was so strong, so sweet, so noble, that not only her husband and children, but outsiders – all, in fact, who knew her – leaned on her, asked eagerly for her counsel, and were invariably the better when they followed her advice. Philip Lovel’s wife was not a helpmeet to him; she was weak, exacting, jealous, and extravagant. She was the kind of woman whom a strong man out of his very pity would be good to, would pet and humor even more than was good for her. Philip was killed suddenly in a railway accident, and his widow was left very desolate and very poor. Her boy was then five years old – a precocious little creature, who from the moment of his father’s death took upon himself the no light office of being his mother’s comforter. He had a curious way even from the very first of putting himself aside and considering her. Without being told, he would stop his noisy games at her approach and sit for an hour at a time with his little hand clasped in hers, while he leaned his soft cheek against her gown and was happy in the knowledge that he afforded her consolation. To see him thus one would have supposed him almost deficient in manly attributes; but this was not so. His gentleness and consideration came of his strength; the child was as strong in mental fiber as the mother was weak. In the company of his brave Cousin Rupert no merrier or gayer little fellow could have been found. His courage and powers of endurance were simply marvelous. Poor little Phil! that courageous spirit of his was to be tested in no easy school. Soon after his sixth birthday those mysterious attacks of pain came on which the doctor in Melbourne, without assigning any special cause for their occurrence, briefly spoke of as dangerous. Phil was eight years old when his mother’s great temptation came to her. She saw an English newspaper which contained the advertisement for the Avonsyde heir. Her husband had often spoken to her about the old family place in the home country. She had loved to listen to his tales, handed down to him orally from his ancestors. She had sighed, and groaned too, over his narratives, and had said openly that to be mistress of such an old ancestral home was her ideal of paradise. Philip, a busy and active man, spent no time over vain regrets; practically he and his elder brother, Rupert, forgot the existence of the English home.
Rupert had made a comfortable fortune for himself in the land of his adoption, and Philip too would have been rich some day if he had lived. Mrs. Lovel, a discontented widow, saw the tempting advertisement, and quickly and desperately she made her plans. Her little son was undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the disinherited Rupert Lovel, but also, and alas! he was not strong. In body at least he was a fragile and most delicate boy. Mrs. Lovel knew that if the ladies of Avonsyde once saw the beautiful and brave young Rupert, Phil’s chance would be nowhere. She trusted that Rupert Lovel the elder would not see the advertisement. She sold her little cottage, realized all the money she could, and without telling any one of her plans, started with her boy for England. Before she left she did one thing more: she made a secret visit to Belmont, and under the pretext of wishing to see her sister-in-law, sat with her while she slept, and during that sleep managed to abstract from the cupboard behind her bed the old silver tankard and a packet of valuable letters. These letters gave the necessary evidence as to the genuineness of the boy’s descent and the tankard spoke for itself.
Mrs. Lovel started for England, and during her long voyage she taught Phil his lesson. He was to forget the past and he was to do his very utmost to appear a strong boy. She arrived at Avonsyde, was kindly welcomed, and day after day, month after month, her hopes grew great and her fears little. Phil played his part to perfection – so his mother said – not recognizing the fact that it was something in the boy himself, something quite beyond and apart from his physical strength, which threw a sweet glamour over those who were with him, causing them to forget the plainness of his face and see only the wonderful beauty of the soul which looked through the lovely eyes, causing them to cease to notice how fragile was the little frame which yet was so lithe and active, causing them never to observe how tired those small feet grew, and yet how willingly they ran in grateful and affectionate service for each and all. Cold-hearted, cold-natured Miss Griselda was touched and softened as she had never been before by any mortal. She scarcely cared to have the boy out of her sight; she petted him much; she loved him well.
Mrs. Lovel hoped and longed. If once Rachel’s birthday could be passed, all would be well. When the ladies appointed Phil as their heir, he was their heir forever. Surely nothing would occur to interfere with her darling projects during the short period which must elapse between the present time and that eventful day two months hence.
As Mrs. Lovel grew more hopeful her manner lost much of its nervous affectation. In no society could she appear as a well-educated and well-read woman, but on the surface she was extremely good-natured, and in one particular she won on the old ladies of Avonsyde. She was practiced in all the small arts of fancy needlework. She could knit; she could crochet; she could tat; she could embroider conventional flowers in crewels. The Misses Lovel detested crewel-work, but Miss Katharine was very fond of knitting and Miss Griselda affected to tolerate crochet. Each night, as the three ladies sat in the smaller of the large drawing-rooms, the crochet and the knitting came into play; and when Mrs. Lovel ventured to instruct in new stitches and new patterns, she found favor in the eyes of the two old ladies.
On the night of Phil’s illness the poor woman sat down with an inward groan to give Miss Griselda her usual evening lesson. No one knew how her heart beat; no one knew how her pulse throbbed nor how wild were the fresh fears which were awakened within her. Suppose, after all, Phil could not keep up that semblance of strength to the end! Suppose an attack similar to the one he had gone through to-day should come on in Miss Griselda’s presence. Then, indeed, all would be lost. And suppose – suppose that other thing happened: suppose Rupert Lovel with his brave young son should arrive at Avonsyde before the 5th of May. Mrs. Lovel could have torn her hair when Phil so quietly told her that he had written to young Rupert, and that even now a reply might be waiting for him at Southampton. She knew well that Rupert’s father would remember how near Avonsyde was to Southampton. If the boy happened to show Phil’s letter to his father, all would be lost. Mrs. Lovel felt that she could not rest until she went to Southampton and secured the reply which might be waiting for Phil at the post-office. These anxious thoughts made her distraite; and bravely as she wore her mask, one or two sighs did escape from her anxious breast.
“How silent you are!” suddenly exclaimed Miss Griselda in a snappish tone. “I have asked you the same question three times! Am I to crochet twelve or thirteen stitches of chain? Oh, you need not trouble to answer; I am putting away my work now. The pattern is not working out at all properly. Perhaps you are anxious about Phil. If so, pray do not let me detain you. It is a great mistake to coddle children, but I suppose a mother’s foolishness must be excused.”
“You quite mistake. I am not the least anxious,” answered poor Mrs. Lovel, who was in reality on thorns. “I am so very sorry that I did not hear your question, dear Miss Griselda. The fact is, I have been wondering if I might ask a little favor. I should like to go to Southampton to-morrow morning. Can you spare the carriage to send me to the railway station?”
Miss Griselda stared.
“Can I spare the carriage?” she repeated haughtily. “I was not aware that you were a prisoner at Avonsyde, Mrs. Lovel. Of course you can go in or out as you please. Pray send your own orders to the stables.”
Mrs. Lovel was profuse in her thanks, Miss Griselda as cross and ungracious as possible. The fact was the old lady was longing to pay Phil a visit in his room, and would have done so had she not feared his mother accompanying her. The poor unhappy mother would have given worlds to be with her boy, but dreaded Miss Griselda’s comments.
The next day, early, Mrs. Lovel went to Southampton, executed a few commissions in order to give color to her expedition, fetched Phil’s letter from the post-office, and returned home, burning with impatience to read its contents. She would not have scrupled to open the envelope had not Phil implored of her, just when she was starting on her journey, to let him have this pleasure himself.
Phil was much as usual the next morning, and he and Aunt Grizel and Kitty had gone off on an expedition into the forest to look for mosses. When Mrs. Lovel got back the little party had not returned. She had still to control her impatience, and after taking a hurried lunch went up to her tower bedroom. She laid the letter with the Australian postmark on the writing-table and paced in a fever of anxiety up and down the small room. Suddenly it occurred to her to beguile the slow moments with some occupation. Why should she not open that trunk which contained old reminiscences and one or two articles of value? Why should she not open it and put its contents in order, and take out the precious tankard and clean it? This task would give her occupation and cause the weary moments to pass quickly.
She stooped down and was startled to find that the key was in the lock. How very, very stupid of her to have left it there! When had she been guilty of so dangerous a piece of negligence? With trembling fingers she raised the lid of the trunk and began to search for the tankard. Of course she could not find it. Suddenly she heard footsteps approaching and half-rose in an expectant attitude. Her little son came quickly in.
“Oh, mother, have you brought my letter?”
“Yes; it is on the table. Phil, there was a silver tankard in this trunk, and I can’t find it.”
Phil had flown to his letter and was opening it eagerly.
“Phil, do you hear me? I can’t find the silver tankard.”
He went up at once to his mother.
“I beg your pardon, mother. I am so dying to see what Rupert says! A silver tankard? Oh, yes; that old one they always had at Belmont; the one Gabrielle was so proud of. I did not know they had given it to you. Oh, mother, I am sorry. Do you know, I never thought of it until this minute.”
“Thought of what? Speak, child; don’t keep me on thorns!”
“I found it, mother, and I took it out with me that day when I was nearly drowned in the bog. I had it with me that day.”
“Well, boy, well! Where is it now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember a single thing about it. I think I had it with me in the bog. I’m almost sure I had, but I can’t quite recollect. Perhaps I dropped it in the bog. Mother, what is the matter?”
“Nothing, child. I could shake you, but I won’t. This is terrible news. There! read your letter.”
“Mother darling, let us read it together. Mother, I didn’t know it was wrong. Kiss me, mammy, and don’t look so white. Oh! I am almost too happy. Mother, Rupert says when I am reading this he will be in England!”
“Then we are lost!” said Mrs. Lovel, pushing the slight little figure away from her. “No, no, I scarcely love you at this moment. Don’t attempt to kiss me. We are utterly lost!”
CHAPTER XVII. – LOOKING FOR THE TANKARD
When Mrs. Lovel spoke to Phil with such passion and bitterness, and when, abruptly leaving the tower bedroom and slamming the door violently after her, the little boy found himself alone, he was conscious of a curious half-stunned feeling. His mother had said that she scarcely loved him. All his small life he had done everything for his mother; he had subdued himself for her sake; he had crushed down his love and his hope and his longing just to help her. What did he care for wealth, or for a grand place, or for anything in all the wide world, in comparison with the sweetness of Rupert’s smile, in comparison with the old happy days in Belmont and of the old life, when he might be a boy with aches and pains if he liked, when he need not pretend to be possessed of the robust health which he never felt, when he need carry no wearisome secrets about with him? His mother had said, “I scarcely love you, Phil,” and she had gone away angry; she had gone away with defiance in her look and manner, and yet with despair in her heart. Phil had guessed that she was despairing, for he knew her well, and this knowledge soon made his brief anger take the form of pity.
“Poor mother! poor darling mother!” he murmured. “I did not know she would mind my taking out the old Belmont tankard. I am awfully sorry. I suppose it was quite careless of me. I did not know that mother cared for the tankard; but I suppose Gabrielle must have given it to her, and I suppose she must love Gabrielle a little. That is nice of her; that is very nice. I wish I could get the tankard back for her. I wonder where I did leave it. I do wish very much that I could find it again.”
Phil now turned and walked to the window and looked out. It was a delicious spring day, and the soft air fanned his cheeks and brought some faint color to them.
“I know what I’ll do,” he said to himself. “I’ll go once again into the forest – I’m not likely to get lost a second time – and I’ll look for the tankard. Of course I may find it, and then mother will be happy again. Oh, dear, to think Rupert is in England! How happy his letter would have made me but for mother, and – hullo! is that you, Kitty?”
“Yes; come down,” called out Kitty from the lawn in front of the house. “I’ve been watching you with Aunt Griselda’s spy-glasses for the last couple of minutes, and you do look solemn.”
“I’m coming,” Phil called back.
He thrust his beloved letter into one of his pockets, and a moment later joined his two cousins on the lawn.
“You have been a time,” said Kitty, “and we have got some wonderful and quite exciting news to tell you – haven’t we, Rachel?”
“You find it exciting, Kitty,” said Rachel in an almost nonchalant voice, “but I dare say Phil will agree with me that it’s almost a bore.”
“What is it?” said Phil.
“Oh, only this – the Marmadukes are coming to-morrow to stay for ten days.”
“The Marmadukes! Who are they?” asked Phil.
“Oh, some children from London. They are our relations – at least, so Aunt Griselda says; and she thinks it will be nice for us to know them. Anyhow, they’re coming – two boys and two girls, and a father and a mother, and a lady’s-maid, and a pug dog, and a parrot. Aunt Grizel is so angry about the pug and the parrot; she wanted to write and tell them all that they couldn’t come, and then Aunt Katharine cried and there was a fuss. It seems they’re more Aunt Katharine’s friends than Aunt Grizel’s. Anyhow, they’re coming, and the pug and the parrot are to stay in Newbolt’s room all the time; so don’t you ask to see them, Phil, or you’ll get into hot water. The best of it is that while they’re here we are all to have holidays, and we can go a great deal into the forest and have picnics if the weather keeps fine. And in the evening Aunt Grizel says she will have the armory lighted, and we children may play there and have charades and tableaux and anything we fancy. Oh, I call it great, splendid fun!” said Kitty, ending with a caper.
Rachel’s very dark eyes had brightened when Kitty spoke about the tableaux and the charades.
“It all depends on what kind of children the Marmadukes are,” she said; and then she took Phil’s hand and walked across the lawn with him.
She had a fellow-feeling for Phil just at present, for he and she shared a secret; and she noticed as he stood by Kitty’s side that his laugh was a little forced and that there were very dark lines under his eyes.
“You’re tired – aren’t you, Phil?” she said.
“I?” asked the little boy, looking up with almost alarm in his face. “Oh, please don’t say that, Rachel.”
“Why shouldn’t I say it? Any one to look at you could see you are tired, and I’m sure I don’t wonder, after being so ill last night. Go in and lie down if you like, Phil, and I’ll pretend to Aunt Grizel that you are half a mile away in the forest climbing trees and doing all kinds of impossible things.”
“I do want to go into the forest,” said Phil, “but I won’t go to-day, Rachel. You were very kind to me last night. I love you for being so kind.”
“Oh, it wasn’t exactly kindness,” said Rachel. “I came to you because I was curious, you know.”
“Yes; but you were kind, all the same. Do you think, Rachel, we shall often go into the forest and go a long, long way when the Marmadukes are here?”
“Yes, I suppose so. It depends upon the weather, of course, and what kind of children they are. They may be such puny little Londoners that they may not be able to walk a dozen steps. Why do you want to know, Phil? You look quite excited.”
“We have a secret between us – haven’t we, Rachel?”
It was Rachel’s turn now to color and look eager.
“Yes,” she said; “oh, yes.”
“Some day,” whispered Phil – “some day, when the Marmadukes are here, we might go near the lady’s house – might we not?”
Rachel caught the boy’s arm with a strong convulsive grasp.
“If we might!” she said. “If we only dared! And you and I, Phil, might steal away from the others, and go close to the lady’s house, and watch until she came out. And we might see her – oh! we might see her, even if we did not dare to speak.”
“I want to go,” said Phil – “I want to go to that house again, although it is not because I want to see the lady. It is a secret; all my life is made up of secrets. But I will go if – if I have a chance. And if you see me stealing away by myself you will help me – won’t you, Rachel?”
“Trust me,” said Rachel, with enthusiasm. “Oh, what a dear boy you are, Phil! I can scarcely believe when I talk to you that you are only eight years old; you seem more like my own age. To be only eight is very young, you know.”
“I have had a grave sort of life,” said Phil, with a hastily suppressed sigh, “and I suppose having a great many secrets to keep does make a boy seem old.”
CHAPTER XVIII. – THE MARMADUKES
The Marmadukes were not at all a puny family; on the contrary, they were all rather above the ordinary size. Mr. Marmaduke was extremely broad and red and stout; Mrs. Marmaduke was an angular and bony-framed woman, with aquiline features and a figure which towered above all the other ladies present; the lady’s-maid took after her mistress in stature and became Newbolt’s detestation on the spot; the pug dog was so large that he could scarcely be considered thoroughbred; and the parrot was a full-grown bird and the shrillest of its species. The four young Marmadukes took after their parents and were extremely well developed. The eldest girl was thirteen; her name was Clementina; she had a very fat face and a large appetite. The boys, named Dick and Will, were sturdy specimens; and Abigail, or Abby, the youngest of the group, was considerably spoiled and put on many airs, which made her insufferable to Kitty and Phil.
The Marmadukes arrived in a body, and without any efforts on their own parts or the smallest desire that way on the part of the old ladies they took Avonsyde by storm. They seemed to fill the whole house and to pervade the grounds, and to make their presence felt wherever they turned. They entertained themselves and suggested what places they should go to see, and announced the hours at which they would like best to dine and what times they would wish the Avonsyde carriage to be in attendance. Miss Griselda was petrified at what she was pleased to term the manners of the great Babylon. Miss Katharine received several snubs at the style of friends she kept, and only the fact that they were distantly connected with the Lovels, and that their visit must terminate within ten days, prevented Miss Griselda from being positively rude to such unwelcome inmates.
“Phil,” said Rachel on the second morning after the arrival of this obnoxious household, “if Clementina thinks she is going to get the upper hand of me any more she is finely mistaken. What do I care for her Kensington Gardens and that pony she rides in the Row! I don’t suppose she knows how to ride – not really; for I asked her yesterday if she could ride barebacked, and she stared at me, and turned up her lip, and said in such a mincing voice, ‘We don’t do that kind of thing in London.’ Phil, I hate her; I really do! I don’t know how I’m to endure her for the next week. She walks about with me and is so condescending to me; and I can’t endure it – no, I can’t! Oh, I wish I could do something to humble her!”
“Poor Rachel!” said Phil in his sweet, pitying voice, and a tender, beautiful light which is born of sympathy filled his eyes. “I know Clementina is not your sort, Rachel,” he said, “and I only wish she would talk to me and leave you alone.”
Rachel laughed and leaned her hand affectionately on Phil’s shoulder.
“I don’t wish that,” she said. “I don’t want to ease myself by adding to your burdens; you have quite enough with Dick and Will. You must hate them just as much as I hate Clementina.”
“Oh, I don’t hate them at all,” said Phil. “They are not my sort; they are not the style of boys I like best, but I get on all right with them; and as to hating, I never hated any one in all my life.”
“Well, I have,” said Rachel. “And the one I hate most now in all the world is Clementina Marmaduke! Oh, here they are, all coming to meet us; and doesn’t poor Kitty look bored to death?”
Phil glanced wistfully from one sister to another, and then he ran up to Clementina and began to chat to her in a very eager and animated voice. He was evidently suggesting something which pleased her, for she smiled and nodded her head several times. Phil said, “I’ll bring them to you in a moment or two,” and ran off.
“What have you asked Phil to do?” asked Rachel angrily. “He’s not a strong boy – at least, not very strong, and he mustn’t be sent racing about.”
“Oh, then, if he’s not strong he won’t ever get Avonsyde,” returned Clementina. “How disappointed his mother will be. I thought Phil was very strong.”
“You know nothing about it,” said Rachel, getting redder and more angry. “You have no right to talk about our private affairs; they are nothing to you.”
“I only know what my mamma tells me,” said Clementina, “and I don’t choose to be lectured by you, Miss Rachel.”
Here Will and Dick came eagerly forward, squared their shoulders, and said:
“Go it, girls! Give it to her back, Rachel. She’s never happy except when she’s quarreling.”
A torrent of angry words was bubbling up to Rachel’s lips, but here Phil came panting up, holding a great spray of lovely scarlet berries in his hand.
“Here!” he said, presenting it to Clementina. “That is the very last, and I had to climb a good tall tree to get it. Let me twine it round your hat the way Gabrielle used to wear it. Here, just one twist – doesn’t it look jolly?”
The effect on Clementina’s dark brown beaver hat was magical, and the effect on her temper was even more soothing – she smiled and became good-tempered at once. Rachel’s angry words were never spoken, and sunshine being restored the children began to discuss their plans for the day.
Miss Griselda had given a certain amount of freedom to all the young folk, and under supervision – that is, in the company of Robert, the groom – they might visit any part of the forest not too far away. When the eager question was asked now, “What shall we do with ourselves?” Phil replied instantly, “Let’s go into the forest. Let’s visit Rufus’ Stone.”
Rachel’s eyes danced at this, and she looked eagerly and expectantly at her little cousin.
“You have none of you seen the Stone,” proceeded Phil. “There are splendid trees for climbing round there, and on a fine day like this it will be jolly. We can take our lunch out, and I’ll show you lots of nests, Will.”
“I’ll go on one condition,” said Rachel – “that we ride. Let’s have our ponies. It is too horrid to be cooped up in a wagonette.”
“Oh, we’d all much rather ride!” exclaimed the Marmaduke children.
“Bob can drive the pony-cart to the Stone,” proceeded Rachel, “and meet us there with our luncheon things. That will do quite well, for as there are such a lot of us we won’t want a groom to ride as well. We know every inch of the road from here to the Stone – don’t we, Phil?”
“Yes,” answered Phil softly.
“Well, that’s splendid,” said Clementina, who felt that her berries were very becoming and who imagined that Rachel was looking at them enviously. “But have you got horses enough to mount us all?”
“We’ve got ponies,” said Rachel. “Rough forest ponies; jolly creatures! You shall have Brownie, as you’re such a good rider; he’s nice and spirited – isn’t he, Phil?”
“Yes,” replied Phil. “But I think Clementina would have a jollier time with Surefoot; he goes so easily. I think he’s the dearest pony in the world.”
“But he’s your own pony, Phil. You surely are not going to give up your own pony?”
Phil laughed.
“I’m not going to give him up,” he said; “only I think I’d like to ride Brownie this morning.”
Rachel scarcely knew why she felt ashamed at these words; she certainly had no intention of offering her horse to Clementina.
“What queer ways Phil has,” she thought to herself. And then she saw a softened look in Clementina’s eyes and her heart gave a sharp little prick.
Half an hour later the riding party set out, and for a time all went smoothly. Rachel was trying to curb her impatience; Clementina amused herself by being condescending to Philip; and Dick, Will, Kitty, and Abby rode amicably together. But the party was ill-assorted, and peace was not likely long to reign. Surefoot was an extremely nice pony, and Clementina rode well in front, and after a time began to give herself airs, and to arrange her fresh and very becoming habit, as if she were riding in the Row. Surefoot was gentle, but he was also fresh; and when Clementina touched him once or twice with her riding-whip, he shook himself indignantly and even broke into a canter against her will.
“You must not touch Surefoot with a whip,” sang out Rachel. “He does not need it and it is an insult to him.”
Clementina laughed scornfully.
“All horses need the whip now and then,” she said; “it freshens them up and acts as a stimulant. You don’t suppose, Rachel, that I don’t know? I rather think there are very few girls who know more about riding than I do. Why, I have had lessons from Captain Delacourt since I can remember.”
“Is Captain Delacourt your riding-master?” asked Rachel in an exasperating voice. “If so, he can’t be at all a good one; for a really good riding-master would never counsel any girl to use the whip to a willing horse.”
“Did your riding-master give you that piece of information?” inquired Clementina in a voice which she considered full of withering sarcasm. “I should like to know his name, in order that I might avoid him.”
Rachel laughed.
“My riding-master was Robert,” she said, “and as he is my aunt’s servant, you cannot get lessons from him even if you wish to. You need not sneer at him, Clementina, for there never was a better rider than Robert, and he has taught me nearly everything he knows himself. There isn’t any horse I couldn’t sit, and it would take a very clever horse indeed to throw me.”
Clementina smiled most provokingly, and raising her whip gave gentle little Surefoot a couple of sharp strokes. The little horse quivered indignantly, and Rachel glanced at Phil, who was riding behind on Brownie.
“Oh, Phil,” she called out, “Clementina is so unkind to your horse. It is well for you, Clementina, that you are on Surefoot’s back. He is so sweet-tempered he won’t resent even cruelty very much; but if you dared to whip my horse, Ruby, you would have good reason to repent of your rashness.”
Rachel was riding on a red-coated pony, a half-tamed creature with promises of great beauty and power by and by, but at present somewhat rough and with a wild, untamed gleam in his eyes. Clementina glanced all over Ruby, but did not deign another remark. She was forming a plan in her mind. By hook or by crook she would ride Ruby home and show to the astonished Rachel what Captain Delacourt’s pupil was capable of.
The children presently reached their destination, where Bob and the light cart of refreshments awaited them. The day was very balmy and springlike, and the most fastidious could not but be pleased and the most ill-tempered could not fail for a time, at least, to show the sunny side of life. The children made merry. Rachel and Clementina forgot their disputes in the delights of preparing salads and cutting up pies; Phil, the Marmaduke boys, and Abby went off on a foraging expedition; and Kitty swung herself into the low-growing branch of a great oak tree, and lazily closing her eyes sang softly to herself.
The picnic dinner turned out a grand success; and then Clementina, who was fond of music and who had discovered that Kitty had a particularly sweet voice, called her to her and said that they might try and get up some glees, which would sound delightfully romantic in the middle of the forest. The children sat round in a circle, Clementina now quite in her element and feeling herself absolute mistress of the occasion.