1 THE ATTIC DESIRE

Christian Mitford was thirteen years of age. She was a tall girl with a pale face, a little pronounced in expression, and quantities of thick, untidy, very bright fair hair, which had a habit of tumbling in a great mass over her eyes and round her shoulders. She was supposed to be much spoilt, and it was well known she had a will of her own.

Christian was an only child. Her home was in a big house in Russell Square. The house was large enough to have been the abode of princes in bygone days. It had enormous, lofty rooms, wide halls, great corridors, spacious landings, and, above all things, charming attics. The attics were not only very big and very roomy, but they were also not required for the use of the family at all. In consequence Christian took possession of them. She had adopted them for her own use when she was quite a little girl, not more than seven or eight years of age.

It was in the attics that Christian lived her real life. She made a fairy world for herself, and there she was happy. In the great front attic, which ran right across the house, she kept her dolls. Christian had twelve dolls, and they all had special characteristics and specially interesting histories. The adventures those dolls went[Pg 2] through would have delighted any other little girl; Christian took these things as a matter of course. If Rosabel, the doll in the blue frock, would run away at night to live with the gypsies for a long time, she deserved punishment, and would be treated accordingly. If Abelard, who was dressed in the costume of an old crusader, would fight his enemies until he himself was all to pieces, and had to lie in bed without arms or legs, surely that also was his own fault, and his punishment served him right. Christian's cheeks used to blaze and her eyes grow bright as these adventurous dolls went through their career of naughtiness in her presence. She was so imaginative that she got herself to believe that they really did these things without any help from her, and sometimes she would sigh and shake her head and think herself much to be pitied for having such a fearfully troublesome, not to say dangerous family to manage.

But the dolls, with their dolls'-house for the respectable members of the family, and with their forests full of bandits, their crusades, their land of Palestine, their troubadours for the others, had had their day. Christian grew old enough to feel the glamour of the dolls depart. It was ridiculous to suppose that Abelard had really got that ghastly wound in his side, or that he had really lost his legs, fighting the Saracens. Yes, the dolls had had their day. But the fairy tales could be read and lived through, and she herself could be the heroine of adventure; and what a time she had when she was the voiceless Mermaid who loved a Prince and for his sake had her tongue cut out! Or how depressed she was when she acted the Ugly Duckling; and how she had, as the little Tin Soldier, adored the little Paper Princess!

But even the fairy-tale stage came to an end, and the history books had now their turn. Christian was William Tell, and her hand shook as she fired at the apple. Or[Pg 3] she was Joan of Arc in prison, and putting on her armor when there was no one by to see. Or she was Charlotte Corday at the moment of her great inspiration. Or, again, she was on the way to the guillotine as that great hero of fiction, Sidney Carton.

The world knew nothing about Christian. They saw a dull little girl who flitted through life demurely and never expressed any strong feelings about anything.

"She is a child without character," her French governess said of Christian.

"She is a good girl, but she will never play—at least, except in the ordinary way," her music-master said.

"If she had only a little imagination she would do so much better over her poetry and history," her English mistress declared.

It was only her dancing-mistress who now and then expressed approval as Christian flitted about on her small feet, curvetting and curtsying, bending and bowing, and doing all these things with an inborn grace.

"Ah, that child!" said this discerning person; "has she not the very essence of poetry—the thing itself?"

But Christian did not even hear her dancing-mistress praise her. She was accustomed to being found fault with: even her mother only bestowed faint praise upon her; and as to her father, he scarcely noticed her at all.

Never mind, her real home was in the front attic. The grown people of the house had very little idea how much of Christian's time was spent in this attic. But however cold the weather, Christian never felt it up there. She would remain in the huge, desolate place hour after hour, crouching in a corner, her eyes gazing fascinated at the scene which she had conjured up. Of course, she got many a cold in this way. The colds were nursed and she was well treated, and no one ever for a moment traced them to their true cause.

[Pg 4]

There came an afternoon soon after Christmas, cold and dreary, when icy blasts of wind banged up against the dormer-windows of Christian's attic, and such piles of snow were heaped up on the roofs hard by that the young girl could only picture herself as the Ice Maiden. At last the cold became unbearable, and she stepped out of fairyland and ran swiftly downstairs.

On the floor just below the attics were the nurseries and her schoolroom. In the front nursery sat old nurse. She was mending some of Christian's stockings. She had spectacles on her nose, and was singing softly to herself. Christian loved her perhaps better than anyone else in the world, but she did not wait to speak to her now. She hurried past the nurseries; their day was over. She used to sigh when she remembered how many days were over. The dolls' day, the fairy-tales day, and of course the nursery day. But, thank goodness, the hero and heroine day would never be over!

"When I am grown up," thought the child, "I shall be a real one. I mean to do something very big, very great, very grand. I am preparing—I know I am preparing—all this time."

Christian also hurried past the schoolroom, which was quite comfortable and snugly furnished, with big fires in the grates. She passed the next floor, and presently found herself on the one where the drawing rooms were situated. Here, beyond the two great drawing rooms, was a small and very comfortable boudoir. The door of the room was slightly open, and Christian observed that heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. The logs on the fire blazed up merrily and a grateful breath of heat came out to the child. Christian went in at once and stood by the fire. She had just begun to thaw when she heard footsteps approaching. Now, if she made for the door she would certainly meet the intruder. This was not[Pg 5] to be borne. She flew across the room, pushed aside the heavy curtains which sheltered one of the windows, and curling herself up on the window ledge, was completely lost to view. There were double windows and shutters, and the shutters were fastened. There was, therefore, not the slightest draught, and the window ledge itself was soft with cushions, and had a down pillow at one end. Christian had often lain there before to sleep. The little nook was warm and, compared with the attic, most comfortable. She cuddled herself up amongst the cushions and lay quiet. Of course, she would not stay long; she would just get warm, and then go upstairs to her lessons.

But the footsteps she had heard did not enter the room, and presently drowsiness stole over her and she fell asleep. When she awoke it was to the sound of voices. She raised herself very carefully, taking care not to make the slightest noise, and, dividing the curtains about a quarter of an inch, peeped out. Her mother, Mrs. Mitford, was sitting near the fire with her back to Christian. She was a pretty little woman, very young-looking for her age, and dressed in the height of fashion. A tempting looking tea equipage stood on a small table near, and as Christian watched, her mother raised a small silver teapot and poured out a cup of tea. She handed it across to a lady whom Christian knew well and hated violently. She was a certain Miss Neil, who often visited her mother. Christian had long ago pronounced Miss Neil a frumpy, tiresome, cross old woman.

"I do dislike her!" she said now to herself. "I wonder my darling mumsy can stand her."

As the child watched she saw Miss Neil help herself to a piece of buttered toast, and at the same time her mother said:

"Whatever happens, I shall give her a first-rate outfit; I have made up my mind to that."

[Pg 6]

Christian's heart made a great bound. She dropped back into the shadow, making a slight creaking noise as she did so. Mrs. Mitford glanced round her nervously.

"Don't you hear someone in the room, Julia?"

"No, dear; only mice in the wainscot," was Miss Neil's reply. "But, as you were saying, you will send Christian provided with a good outfit. That is so like you; you always were such a thoughtful, excellent mother."

Mrs. Mitford liked to be praised, and Miss Neil was aware of that fact. Mrs. Mitford's placid face shone with satisfaction.

"I should be sorry," she said, "if I failed in my motherly duties. The mother of one child has a great responsibility thrust upon her."

"Your poor little girl won't like the change—eh?" said Miss Neil.

"I'm afraid not," replied Mrs. Mitford, with a shrug of her dainty shoulders. "The school her father has selected for her is, I understand, very severe in tone. Discipline is much exercised there; but my dear husband insists. He says that we are spoiling Christian."

Christian, at the other side of the curtains, dug her nails into her flesh. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep from screaming aloud.

"I want you to help me, Julia," continued Mrs. Mitford. "We'll have the carriage out immediately after breakfast to-morrow and go round to the different shops. We really have no time to lose. I mean to give her two good, serviceable school frocks, two best frocks for Sunday—one is all that is necessary, but I want her to look really nice—an everyday evening frock, and a full-dress party one. Then she must have a tailor-made coat and skirt, and about half a dozen blouses."

"An abundance," said Miss Neil. "Too much, I[Pg 7] should say. I never think there is any use in pampering young girls."

"Don't you, you old skinflint?" thought Christian at the other side of the curtain.

"Of course, there are a thousand and one other things," continued Mrs. Mitford; "but everything must be got in a great hurry, for she goes next week."

"Next week," thought Christian. "Oh!"

Her thoughts flew to the attic. In the attic she was Charlotte Corday: she had arrived at Paris; the greatest moment of her life was at hand. In the boudoir she was a little girl eavesdropping. Yes, it was an ugly position. She wriggled, then remained quiet, for the most awful thing of all would be to be found out.

"What day did you say the dear child was to go to her school?" asked Miss Neil.

"Next Tuesday. This is Wednesday—not a week off now."

"By the way, Mary," said Miss Neil suddenly, "have you told the child?"

"I have not Julia; and, what is more, I do not intend to. I shan't say anything whatever about it until the night before. What is the use in making her miserable? When she hears she will have no time to be sorry; she will be far too surprised; and when she gets to school her new and pleasant life will absorb her altogether. I want you to take her, by the way, Julia, for neither her father nor I can spare the time."

"When do you start yourselves?"

"Early on Tuesday morning. It is all so sudden. Of course, my dear husband is greatly pleased, for a great honor has been conferred on him. But for this we should not have sent Christian from home."

Miss Neil slowly and deliberately stirred her tea, and by-and-by she put down the empty cup and saucer.

[Pg 8]

Christian again raised herself and peeped through the curtain. She watched her mother's straight little profile—the pretty lips, the resolute chin, the low forehead, the pretty brown eyes.

"And yet she is hard," thought the child. "She speaks as though she did not care. I always thought mumsy pretty, but somehow I don't think her pretty to-night. She is hard; yes, that's it—hard."

Miss Neil began to draw on her gloves.

"I will call at eleven o'clock to-morrow," she said. "And rest assured, Mary, I shall help you by every means in my power."

"Thank you, dear; I am sure you will. Good-by for the present. Please make a list to-night of what you think will be required for a child whose parents will be in Persia for four or five years. Of course, she must have fresh things from time to time, but I want her to take all that is necessary for her."

"I will indeed; I will with pleasure do what I can for your little Christian. Good-by for the present."

Just as Miss Neil was leaving the room, and before Christian had fully made up her mind whether she would dart from her shelter and confront her mother with the fact that she had heard all, Mrs. Mitford took out her watch, uttered a shriek, and cried:

"Why, I ought to be at the War Office now to meet Henry!" and she rushed from the room.

Christian crouched back amongst her pillows. She stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to prevent her sobs from being heard. What did it all mean? She could not understand.

[Pg 9]

CHAPTER II

THE MYSTERY

Mrs. Mitford did not return, and presently Christian slipped from her hiding-place and ran upstairs. Never having had companions, she had not that absolute desire to confide in someone which is the primary thought of most young girls. She went into her room, washed her face, brushed out her hair, and then entered the nursery.

Nurse was seated by the fire, busy over her endless mending and turning. Nurse, of course, knew; her eyes were red, as though she had been crying a great deal.

"Why, Miss Christie, darling," she said to the young girl, "wherever have you been? You look pinched and cold."

"I haven't had my tea; I expect I look hungry," said Christian, speaking slowly.

"What a shame!" cried nurse. "Did they forget to give it to you?"

"They didn't," said Christian. "I saw it in the rt just now as I passed the open door, but it looked cold and untempting; I'd rather have none than that sort of tea."

"I'll make you some in a minute," said nurse.

"Oh, will you, nursey?"

Christian felt so cheered that her great trouble of next week seemed to recede in the distance.

"And may I toast the bread and put on the butter?"

"To be sure, darling! I keep my own tea and bread and butter in this cupboard; and here is fresh milk. And you shall have a new-laid egg."

[Pg 10]

"Oh, I should love it!" said Christian. "Do give me a thick slice of bread at once, nursey, and let me toast it."

The next few minutes passed happily, and soon Christian was munching buttered toast, eating her egg, and drinking hot tea. It is wonderful what a good fire, a sympathizing old nurse who is not too curious, and sweet tea and buttered toast will accomplish. Christian had been thinking herself the most miserable, cruelly used, neglected girl in the world; but now once again the sunny side of life appeared.

Nurse resumed her work. She was mending a little brown skirt, adding to it and putting fresh braid round the bottom.

"Is that my old skirt? I thought I had done with it," said Christian.

"It will be as good as new when I have finished my work over it," replied nurse. Her tone was guarded.

"She knows, of course," thought the child, "but she is not going to tell. Well, neither will I tell. I will just pretend during all the horrid days that are coming that I don't know anything. I feel waking up within me my very naughtiest self. I know I shall be terribly naughty between now and that black day when spiteful old Neil and I start off for that good-discipline school together. Perhaps—who can tell——"

Christian's eyes brightened; a roguish gleam came into their dark depths. She looked full up at nurse, then lowered her eyelashes.

"Nursey," she said, "do put down that horrid skirt and play bezique with me."

"I can't, my darling; I haven't the time."

"Of course you've got time. I don't want that horrid skirt; I hate it. I have plenty of skirts."

"But your mother said it was to be got ready for you, miss. She and Miss Neil came up here to-day and [Pg 11]overhauled some of your things, and they said this skirt would stand a lot of wear—at the seaside, for instance."

"But I am not going to the sea. I couldn't wear a hot thing like that in the summer. What do you mean?"

Nurse looked frightened. "There!" she said, irresolution coming all over her old face; "I will please the child. Get the cards, darling; we'll enjoy ourselves."

Christian laughed. They sat by a round table and set to work. They were in the midst of their game when Miss Thompson, Christian's resident governess, entered.

"Whatever are you doing, nurse?" she said. "You know we have all to work as hard as ever we can. There won't be half enough time to make preparations."

"Why, what is all this mystery?" cried Christian. "Preparations for what?"

"Nothing, dear—nothing."

"There's no such thing as nothing," replied Christian, laughing.

Miss Thompson got quite red. "Young girls don't always know what they are talking about," she said in a severe tone. "Nurse has got to work, and I have got to work, and you have got to be good. By the way, where do you keep your story-books?"

"Upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber," answered Christian.

"Well, wherever you keep them, I want them collected."

"What for?"

"I wish to make a list of them."

"I can't fly over the house for them to-night. I'll get them to-morrow morning if I must get them."

"Well, come into the schoolroom now. There are several things we must arrange."

[Pg 12]

"I will after I have finished my game," said Christian.

Miss Thompson thought it better to retire than to make a fuss, and Christian and nurse proceeded with their game.

"Why ever do you sigh so, nursey?" asked Christian.

"I didn't know I was sighing, lovey."

"You didn't know that you were hiding a big mystery. You are a silly old woman. Thompson lets out things, and you let out things, and if I want to poke my finger into the secret I could; but I don't care—not a bit. I'm off now to have a chat with Thompson."

Before Christian could carry these words into effect there came a knock at the door. It was burst open, and a rosy-faced, black-eyed little girl of the name of Rose Latimer entered. She was nurse's grand-niece, and was supposed not to be a fit companion for Christian. Nevertheless Christian adored her. She found her far more interesting and more companionable and more get-at-able than any of the girls whom she met or who were invited to play with her.

Rose's bright eyes danced when she saw Christian. Christian ran up to her and kissed her hurriedly.

"Come!" said nurse; "that aint proper. Rose, you mind your manners. You aint on the same standing as my young lady, and you should remember it."

"But indeed she is," said Christian—"that is, if being pretty and ladylike and funny and affectionate makes her on the same standing. Some of the girls I know are perfect horrors; but Rosy—why, she is just Rosy. Sit down, Rosy, dear. Here's a lot of toast left; and nurse shall boil you another egg. But do you know that I am Charlotte Corday to-day? Marat is getting into his bath, and I shall go and kill him in a minute or two. Isn't it thrilling?"

[Pg 13]

"Ah!" cried nurse, who knew nothing either about Marat or Charlotte Corday; "what a perfectly awful thing to say, Miss Christian! You fair terrify me."

Christian made no answer. She raised her brows and looked with her intelligent, keen, overstrung little face at Rose.

"Will you spend the night?" she said suddenly. "I want to talk to you. Nurse, will you keep Rosy until the morning?"

"Miss Christian!"

"You can if you like, nursey. She shall sleep with me. She shall; she must."

"Miss, I couldn't hear of it."

"Very well, never mind about that. Just ask her to stay. She shall sleep in your bed, and I will have a chat with her by-and-by. You wouldn't like, nursey——"

"What, Miss Christian?"

"Suppose I wasn't to be with you always—I mean you wouldn't like to feel you had refused one of my last wishes. If you come to think of it, it is almost like a a dying wish; isn't it, nursey?"

"Oh, dear!" cried the poor nurse, "the child does wring my heart. Rose, run along, then. Go and take off your hat and coat, and come and help me to put the braid on this skirt."

During the rest of that evening Christian enjoyed herself. It was really great fun being at the back of the secret. To have a secret going on that she was not aware of would have been irritating, almost maddening; but to know it all the time, and so lead up to it and get people who imagined that they were keeping it so safe and secure to all but betray themselves, was quite interesting. Christian sat down very demurely in the schoolroom, and allowed Miss Thompson to reveal herself as much as she could desire. Miss Thompson imagined she was keeping[Pg 14] the secret of Christian's school to herself, but Christian knew better.

At last it was time to go to bed. She bade Miss Thompson good-night and peeped into the nursery. Nurse had gone to her room, but Rose was sitting by the fire. Christian tiptoed across the room.

"When are you going to bed, Rosy?"

"Nurse said I was just to sit up to say good-night to you; then I must go, for I can't keep my eyes open."

"You will have to presently. But be off now; get into bed with nurse, and after a little, when she is asleep, slip out and come into mine. You know where my bedroom is."

"To be sure, miss."

"You did it before, you know, Rose."

"Yes, Miss Christian."

Rose was standing up within a foot or two of Christian, and her eyes were shining brightly.

"You will do it again," said Christian. "Nobody found out before, and nobody 'll find out now. I want you to give me just the most tremendous help, and only you can do it. I shall leave my door ajar. I'll be in bed in half an hour. You slip into bed beside nurse, and when she is sound asleep, get out again and come to me. Then we'll talk; then you'll find out what I really want. Oh, Rose! it is greater than William Tell and the apple. It is nearly, but not quite, as big as Joan of Arc. It is big and monstrous, and only you, Rose, can help me."

[Pg 15]

CHAPTER III

A WILD SCHEME

Three-quarters of an hour later Rose was cuddled up in Christian's bed. When the two heads were almost touching, and the brown cheek and the pale one were pressed close together, and two little hands were clasped tightly under the bedclothes, then Christian began to unburden her mind. The door was shut; the house was quiet—that is, the nursery part of the house; Miss Thompson, the governess, had a headache, and would certainly not appear on the scene again until morning; nurse was noted for her deep and long sleep; the servants were far away. If father and mother came in long past midnight, they would not trouble Christian in her distant bedroom; she was safe. She felt that she was quite safe; but the feeling that if she were discovered she would most certainly be punished added to the fascination of the moment.

"Rose," she said, "I must not speak loud, but I have something most important to tell you. What do you think is going to happen?"

"Well, Miss Christian," replied Rose, "the whole house seems to be, so to speak, on a twitter. There's my great-aunt; she don't seem to know whether she's on her head or her heels. There's something up, but I don't know what it is."

"You'll know in a minute or two; I'll tell you. Now listen; only remember, first, it is a most tremendous secret between you and me."

[Pg 16]

"Yes, yes," said Rose; "I love secrets." She pressed a little closer to Christian.

"You are quite my very greatest friend, you know, Rosy," said Christian. "There's Belle Webster and Bertha Hole; they think themselves quite chummy with me, but you are my real friend. We understand each other, we have had so many thrills together."

"Oh, yes," said Rose, "yes! Only I don't like you when you are Charlotte Corday. I was Marat once, you know, and I didn't like that time."

"Well, I'm not Charlotte now. Perhaps I'll never be again. But listen. The secret is our secret. It is too funny, Rosy. The rest of the house think that it is theirs, but it is ours all the time. Now then! I was so cold up in my attic—my darling fairy attic—this afternoon that I ran down to get warm in mother's boudoir. I hid myself behind the curtains. It was so cozy that I dropped asleep. I was lying on the window ledge, and there were cushions, and a soft pillow, and everything to make it delicious. When I woke I heard mother talking to that horrid Neil woman."

"I know her," said Rose. "She snubbed me once awfully; she said I had no call to be coming here so often."

"Well, she has no more right in the house than you have," replied Christian. "But now you will be astonished."

She proceeded to relate the entire story—all that her mother had said, and all that Miss Neil had said; and having given the outlines, she further impressed the fact on Rose that she, Christian, was to be sent to school next week. She was to be sent to school, as it were, in the dark, and she was not to be told anything about it until the night before she went.

"They want to keep it dark until the very last minute," she said. "It is fun, isn't it, Rose?"

[Pg 17]

"Fun," said Rose—"fun!"

Her voice quivered. It quivered so much that it suddenly ended in a choking sob.

"Why Rosy," cried Christian, immensely touched, "you are not crying just because I must go?"

"Miss, I can't bear it," said Rose. "There's no one else ever took a mite of notice of me. I can't help thinking of myself altogether, miss; I can't truly. There's mother; she makes me sit at the dressmaking till I'm fit to faint, and I have no fun—never! I'm like you, miss; I can't make friends outside. I have one friend, and she seems to fill all my heart, and you are she; and if we are to be parted, Miss—— Oh, Miss Christian! I can't—I can't bear it."

Christian, notwithstanding her bravery, found herself crying also. She put her arms around Rose, buried her head in her neck, and sobbed.

"It is awful," she said after a pause. "I did not think so much of parting from you, Rosy, but it is quite terrible; for it isn't even as if I were going to an ordinary school, and coming back for the holidays; but I am going to a severe-discipline one, and I am not coming back—I am to spend the holidays and all there. I might as well be dead, mightn't I, Rose?"

"It's worse nor if you were dead."

"Oh, Rose, it couldn't be worse!"

"It is," said Rose, "for if you were dead I could go on Sundays and take flowers to your grave; I could—I could. Oh, it is much worse! I would save up and buy 'em; no one should hinder me. It is much worse nor if you were dead."

The pathetic picture so conjured up of Rose bending over her grave and putting flowers there was so affecting that Christian sobbed again. After a time, however, she ceased crying.

[Pg 18]

"We must do something," she said; "we are both young, and we have both got a lot of spirit."

"Oh, haven't I?" said Rose. "There's nothing daunts me when I'm put to it. Mother says I'm the very naughtiest little girl she ever come across. She threatens perhaps I'll get ugly, just because I'm so desperate naughty. She says that sometimes when you are so mad with spirits, and so desperately fond of yourself, you fall ill with smallpox and that sort of thing. I don't believe it, of course, but she does hold it over me. She seems as sure that I'll take smallpox as that I'll have a cold. It's queer, isn't it?"

"It's silly, I call it," said Christian. "Now then, Rose, don't let's talk any more about that. If you have got spirit, so have I. Suppose, now, that I don't go to that school."

"How will you manage that?" said Rose

"Did you ever hear of a girl running away?" asked Christian. "That's the thought that has come to me. I thought that if you and I were together we could run away. We could support ourselves, I suppose."

"Not without money," said the practical Rose. "It's a lovely thought—the most daring and truly delicious thought I ever heard of—but it wants money."

"I've got seven pounds," said Christian. "Ever since I was a little, tiny girl my godmother has sent me a pound on my birthday, and I haven't spent any of the money. How far would seven pounds go?"

"Oh! a long way; it's a heap of money," said Rose. "Why, it's one hundred and forty shillings. That's an awful lot."

"Yes, I thought it was," said Christian. "I remembered the money the very moment mother talked about not letting me know until the night before. I shall listen, of course, when she does speak, and I will pretend to be good[Pg 19] and submit. Perhaps she will be so sorry for me that she will give me some more pocket money. I hope she will. But what I really mean to do is to slip away somewhere with you, Rosy—to go to some place with you where we can live together. Have you got any money of your own?"

"A shilling," replied Rose sadly. "I took a long time to save it up. Had you died, Miss Christian, I would have spent it on flowers for your grave; so now I will spend it in running away with you—that I will."

"You can't do more, Rosy," said Christian. "Well, we must make our plans, and we must not tell one single human being. We have got to consider how we can live in the very cheapest way, for one hundred and forty shillings will not go far. I suppose they will send the police after us. Isn't it splendid, Rosy? Can you really believe that two young ordinary girls are going to do such a desperate thing?"

"You aint an ordinary girl, Miss Christian."

"Well, perhaps I am not."

"You always was cut out for the part of heroine," continued Rose; "anyone could see that with half an eye. Why, haven't you been William Tell and Joan of Arc and Charlotte Corday for ever so long? And afore that you were fairy queens and fairy princesses, and witches, and such-like. You're cut for the part, miss, and now the time has come."

"It has," said Christian, whose heart was beating fast. "We must think out most of our plans before we go to sleep."

The two girls did think. They were both far too excited to feel sleepy. Their voices kept on murmuring in an even, monotonous sound, which could scarcely penetrate through the closed door of Christian's bedroom.

[Pg 20]

After a fashion they made their plans. What Christian had only wildly dreamt of became definite and something that could be done. Seven pounds was seven pounds, and judiciously spent—spent, too, by a girl of the Rosy sort, a girl who knew poverty and how to live very small and very cheap—it would certainly go a long way.

Strange to say, Christian's conscience did not trouble her. She had been thoroughly well brought up, but her heart was sore now. Her mother had spoken almost coldly about parting with her one lonely girl. She, Christian, was to be sent to an awful strict-discipline school, where she had to stay for years and years, away from all those she loved in the world. She would take her life into her own hands; she would do a desperate, wicked thing, and she would not let her conscience prick her.

"We will do it," she said over and over again to Rosy. "You, Rosy, must find out where it is best for us to go, and then you must come and tell me everything."

"I will," replied Rosy. "I know a girl called Judith, and I think she will help us. Once she spent a whole winter in a gypsy's caravan. She did enjoy herself. She had a fine time, and she had to spend nothing at all. But they had to dye her with walnut juice; maybe you wouldn't like that, Miss Christian."

"No, I shouldn't like that at all," said Christian, who rather prided herself on her fair but somewhat pale complexion. "But that needn't happen, need it?"

"Oh, no; but it happened to Judith. She was dyed with walnut-juice, and she wore gypsy's clothes."

"I shouldn't mind that part," said Christian.

"She had a great taste for music," continued Rosy, "and she played a tambourine and danced. They got her up as a sort of Italian gypsy girl, and she danced wonderful pretty in the streets. She didn't seem ever to want for money after that; she got so many pennies.[Pg 21] You can dance, can't you, Miss Christian? You've had lots of lessons."

"Dance!" said Christian, a sort of thrill running down to her feet and making them move up and down even though she was in bed. "I should just think I can dance. There's nothing in the world I love better. Oh, Rosy, if we could make our living by dancing it would be too scrumptious!"

"Well, I'll find out everything to-morrow and let you know," said Rosy. "I mustn't come here, for my great-aunt would be angry; but I'll come the day after, and I'll bring all the news with me. Let's think. To-morrow will be Thursday; you aint to go afore Tuesday next week. There's lots of time, only the more money you can get the better it will be. I'll come here on Friday night at the latest."

"Well, then, perhaps we had better go to sleep now," said Christian, who was tired at last. The very novelty of the thing made her tired.

She dropped off into a heavy slumber, dreaming all through the night of wonderful things: of gypsies and their caravans; of Italian girls with tambourines, and little sequins round their heads. She fancied herself an Italian girl in a red frock. She thought how pretty she would look, and how sweet it would be to dance. She would let her abundance of hair fall over her neck and shoulders. A fair Italian girl would be even more captivating than a dark one; and Rosy—pretty Rosy—could be the dark one. Oh, they would have a good time! They would enjoy themselves. And it couldn't be wrong; for if father and mother chose to go to Persia and not show any grief at parting from Christian, why should not Christian take her life in her own hands?

She awoke in the morning and found that Rosy's place was vacant, that astute little girl having left the side of[Pg 22] her dearest friend and gone back to nurse. For it would never do for nurse to guess that the young girls were, as she would express it, hatching mischief. Nurse was somewhat suspicious as far as her grandniece was concerned. She knew Rose's character. She had often condoled with her mother on having such a naughty child. Of course, Rosy was very pretty, and she was very fond of Miss Christian; and—worse luck—Miss Christian was very fond of her; and there never was a more masterful child than dear young Miss Christian. Yes, even if Rosy was nurse's own relation, she did not want Christian to see too much of her. But this week of all weeks the child she loved should not be crossed; she should have every single thing she wished for—yes, every single thing; nurse herself would see to that. Nurse considered that Miss Christian was treated shamefully: bundled off to school just as though she were a baby; parted from the nurse who loved her as if she were her own child; taken from the old home and from that strange, mysterious attic where she had spent so much of her time; torn from everyone and taken to school—to a school a long, long way off. Nurse felt piteous tears very near her eyes.

Mr. and Mrs. Mitford had decided to board nurse out during their absence in Persia. The other servants were to be dismissed. Miss Thompson, with an excellent reference and six months' salary over and above what was owing her, would seek another situation. The house would be let to strangers. Christian in reality would have no home.

But when she woke the next morning, and faced the fact that her home in Russell Square would not be hers much longer, Christian did not feel low-spirited, for she and Rosy would certainly carry out their plan in all its details. She was in high spirits, therefore, at breakfast, and enjoyed getting Miss Thompson, as she expressed it,[Pg 23] to give herself away. Miss Thompson found it almost impossible to keep her secret with Christian looking at her, and questioning her, and pretending to observe nothing, and yet showing in her eyes that she knew all.

Miss Thompson went down soon after breakfast to have an interview with Mrs. Mitford.

"Somehow," she said—"although I don't like to say it—somehow I think the child has an inkling of what is going on. Would it not be better to tell her? She would be more prepared, and would not feel it so much at the time."

"If she has an inkling she is bearing it very well," said Mrs. Mitford. "My dear," she added, turning to her husband, who came into the room at that moment, "Miss Thompson is talking about our dear Christian. She says that the child seems to guess that something is happening."

"I am sure she guesses," said Miss Thompson, blushing and trembling a little at her own audacity. "She looks at me with such very questioning eyes, and tries to lead me on, as it were, to betray myself."

Mr. Mitford laughed. "Just like Chris," he said. "She always was a bit of an oddity. But, my dear," he added, turning to his wife, "we will not tell her, all the same. I couldn't stand the thought of the child crying and moaning for the last few days. She may guess—although I don't think she can really—but she is not to be told. Understand, Miss Thompson, the child is not on any account to be told."

"Now listen," said Mrs. Mitford as Miss Thompson was leaving the room; "you needn't keep her to her lessons. You may take her to the Zoo or to Maskelyne and Cook's this morning—anywhere just to give her a bit of fun. Keep her out as much as you can."

"But she will be so surprised; she knows that you are so particular about her lessons."

[Pg 24]

"Well, tell her that I think she is looking rather pale, and that she may have a holiday. Use some tact, Miss Thompson; you can manage it if you like."

Miss Thompson left the room and returned to the schoolroom. Christian was busily engaged pulling out her favorite books from their places in the bookcase and examining them. She knew that she and Rosy could only take one or two books away with them, and she was undecided whether to select her new and beautiful edition of the Arabian Nights or a battered old Shakespeare. She was extremely fond of Shakespeare, but on the whole she felt inclined to take the Arabian Nights.

"They will suit Rosy," she said to herself. "I don't believe Rosy has read any of them—or at least hardly any; and Rosy is too young and too ignorant for Shakespeare. Yes, I think I will select——"

"What in the world are you doing, Christian?" said Miss Thompson as she entered the room.

"Pulling my books about."

"Then put them all back on the shelf at once, dear."

"I was only wondering," said Christian. "There's more reading in the Arabian Nights, I think it will do. Do you mind my putting a little bit of blue ribbon in my copy of the Arabian Nights, Miss Thompson?"

"But why, dear—why?"

"I shall recognize it then at once. Now I suppose we have got to do horrid lessons."

"It's a very strange thing to me, Christian, that such an intelligent girl as you should dislike lessons. I should have imagined that you would love your history and your literature."

"I like Spanish history best," said Christian; "it is the most bloodthirsty."

"My dear, that is a horrid thing to say."

[Pg 25]

"Well, it's true," answered Christian. "It's much less dull than English history—English history, I mean, as it's written. I wish I could make stories out of it. Wouldn't you all gape and scream and jump about, and feel that you must fight like anything, if you listened to my stories? Think of 'John of Gaunt'; and think of the 'Black Prince'; and oh! think of 'Agincourt' and the 'Field of the Cloth of Gold.' Oh, dear! oh, dear! couldn't I make the whole thing shine? And wouldn't I just? But English history as it is written is very, very dull."

"I don't agree with you. When you are older you will know that English history written by such men as Macaulay and Froude is most beautiful and thrilling. Now I have news for you."

"You do look strange!" said Christian; "what can be the matter?"

"I have just been down to see your mother."

"Oh, can I see her?" said Christian, a swift change passing over her face. "Can I? May I? I want so badly to ask her a question."

"She is going out; she does not wish to be disturbed."

"Oh, I know all about that."

"You know about it?"

"Yes; but never mind. Tell me what your secret is, Miss Thompson; I can see it is bubbling all over your face."

"Your mother says that you are looking pale, and that you may have a holiday."

Christian smiled. Her smile came gradually: at first it was just a little dimple in her left cheek; then it spread to her lips; then it filled her eyes; then a wave of color mounted to her face, and she burst into a hearty fit of laughter. But when she ceased laughing there were tears in her eyes.

"My dear," said her governess, "are you well?"

[Pg 26]

"Yes, I am quite well. So I am to have a holiday. Where shall we go?"

"Where would you like to go?"

"May we go where I like?"

"Yes; but what do you think of the Zoo?"

"Oh, I know it so well."

"Would you like Maskelyne and Cook's?"

"No; I want to do something else, and it will take the whole day long. Thompson—dear, darling—— You don't mind my calling you Thompson, do you?"

"Well, Chris, I am accustomed to it by now, am I not?"

"Of course you are; and you are a dear!"

Christian flung her arms round her governess's neck, and rubbed her soft cheek against Miss Thompson's somewhat lined one.

"What I should really like, Thompson dear——"

"What is that, Christian?"

"Well, to hang on your arm and walk very close to you, and chatter all the time."

"You may."

"And not wear my best dress."

"You may wear your common dress."

"Then I do see that things are going to be heavenly! I want to walk slowly—very slowly—up Oxford Street, and then down Regent Street, and then down Piccadilly, and then up Bond Street; and perhaps we might go to Baker Street. And while we are walking I want to watch and watch, and look and look——"

"At the shops, do you mean?"

"No, no; things in the streets."

"What things, love?"

"Little Italian girls and boys with monkeys and tambourines; and Happy Families, too. Oh, I do love Happy Families!"

"But you can see them any day in the Square."

[Pg 27]

"Yes; but I want to look at them with fresh eyes."

"Fresh eyes, Christian?"

"Yes. I dreamt about a little Italian girl last night, and I felt that I loved her."

"We can easily see them," said Miss Thompson, "wherever we are; and it needn't take the whole day."

"When we are tired we can have lunch somewhere," continued Christian; "and I should like to give the Italians a lot of buns, and the monkeys some nuts. Oh! I want to stare well at them all. I want to see for myself what the little Italians look like, and how they do their dancing, and how they manage their monkeys."

"You are a strange child, Christian; but there is nothing wrong in your wish to see the Italians. Have you any other desires?"

"Well, I should like—only I'm afraid you won't do it—to go into an awfully slummy place, and walk upstairs and see what the bedrooms are like, and to question some of the women as to what they eat, and how much they pay for what they eat. For, you see, even if you have close on eight pounds, it can't be expected to last forever. Oh, dear! what have I said? Have I said anything very, very funny, Miss Thompson?"

"Yes, Christian, you have; but then, you are eccentric."

"So I am. Will you be such a darling as to take me into a slummy place?"

"Certainly not. You may look at the Italians from a distance, but we will keep in clean streets if you please. Now go and put on your things; I will give you the best sort of day I can."

[Pg 28]

CHAPTER IV

GRANDMOTHER'S DINNER

Christian had, on the whole, a very interesting day. She had never been so captivated by Italian children before. She watched and watched the pretty movements, the quick gestures, the gleam of the white teeth, the shining dark eyes. The little monkeys, too, were all that was pathetic. She quite made up her mind that she and Rosy would earn their living in the future as Italian girls—that they would have a monkey and a tambourine each, and go about and dance and beg for money, and have a happy time.

"Only we must not do it near home," thought Christian, "for we might be discovered. It would be indeed too terrible a fate if, when father and mother are away in Persia, Miss Neil should catch sight of us. I should be punished then; and poor, poor Rosy—her mother would half kill her."

Christian's thoughts were so full of keen interest that morning that Miss Thompson began to consider her a very delightful girl. She was startled, however, in the midst of lunch, which they were both enjoying immensely, by the young girl bending forward and saying in an emphatic voice:

"If it was necessary for your career, would you greatly mind being dyed with walnut-juice?"

"My dear Christian, what a strange remark!"

"But I wish you'd answer it," said Christian emphatically.

[Pg 29]

"I can't understand. It could not be necessary for my career."

"But if it was. If it made all the difference between success and failure, between prison and liberty, which would you choose?"

"Oh, the walnut-juice, of course," said Miss Thompson. "But, all the same, I fail to understand."

"I don't want you to understand any more, dear Thompson; and you know you are quite a darling. You are coming out in the very nicest character. I hope I shall have more and more holidays, for I do like going about with you."

Miss Thompson was to remember Christian's remarks later on, but certainly at the present juncture they had no meaning for her.

When the young girl came back late that evening she was informed by nurse that Mrs. Mitford had sent her an invitation.

"You are to put on your very best company frock, Miss Christian, and to look as nice as ever you can, for you are to go down to sit with your mamma in her boudoir this evening. Mr. Mitford will be out, and you are to have supper with her. She means to have supper in her boudoir, and she says that you are to keep her company."

Nurse expected Christian to shout with delight, but she was silent and looked rather grave.

"Aint you glad, my darling?" said the old woman.

"Nursey," said Christian, "did you ever have the feeling that you were too glad and yet too sorry to be able to say what you felt? On the whole, I'd rather not see too much of mumsy at present; but if I must I must, and if I go I'd like to look nice. Make me very, very nice, please, nursey dear."

Nurse set herself willingly to accomplish this task, and Christian in her white silk frock, with its many ruchings[Pg 30] and ribbons and soft laces, and with her fair hair hanging down her back, made as interesting and pretty a picture as the heart of mother could desire.

"There, darling!" said the old woman; "you are like no one else, my own Miss Christian. Kiss me and go."

Christian ran up first to her attic. She had secured a broken looking-glass, rather a large one, which she had placed in such a position that she could see herself when she acted the parts of her different heroes and heroines. From time to time she had induced the housemaids to give her candle-ends, and she possessed a large box of these interesting remnants. She lit a couple of dozen now, put them in different positions, and was at last able to get a good view of her own young figure. She was a rather tall and very upright girl, and she looked her best to-night.

"Is it I or is it another girl?" thought Christian.

Her quick imagination pictured the different heroines of history. Which should she select as her own rôle to-night? Finally, after a steadfast glance into her face, she decided to belong to the army of martyrs, and to imagine herself back in the time when people died for their faith. It seemed to her that she read resolution, determination, and unflinching self-sacrifice in her eyes.

She blew out the candles, gave a little sigh of relief, and ran downstairs. Her mother was waiting for her. Mrs. Mitford was very prettily dressed, the boudoir looked charming, the fire burned brightly, the lamps were pretty with their shaded globes, but Christian could not help giving a guilty glance towards that window behind whose thick, soft curtains she had listened to the story of her proposed fate.

"Only it isn't my fate," thought the child, "for I am determined—quite determined—to choose the life of the free."

[Pg 31]

Supper was already on the table, and Christian had to take her place.

"I hope you will like the meal I have had prepared for you, Chris," said her mother. "Johnston, you need not wait," she continued, turning to the footman; "we will ring when we want anything: I have quite thought about this little meal with you, Chris," continued Mrs. Mitford, "and I ordered soles. You love soles, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, mumsy; we never have anything nice and tasty of that sort in the schoolroom."

"They have got so terribly expensive," said Mrs. Mitford in a fretful tone. "After the soles we will have pheasant; you are fond of pheasant. And you shall pour out the coffee by-and-by. As the sweets—children always adore sweets—I hate them myself, but I suppose there will be something brought up for you. I ordered a savory for myself, but left your sweets to cook."

"And I'd ever so much rather eat a bit of your savory, mother; I don't so specially care for sweets," said Christian.

She was somewhat depressed, and yet she was happy. The delicately served meal was quite to her taste. She said to herself:

"This will be something to remember by-and-by when Rosy and I are eating red herrings and stale bread. I'll often talk to Rosy about this meal. I feel to-night as though I wasn't Christian Mitford at all, but someone else; not a poor martyr, but a sort of queen. How pretty mother looks! I shall never be pretty like her. Yes, she has a darling, sweet face, but——"

Christian did not follow up this "but," only it lay like a weight near her heart.

The meal came to an end, the savory was disposed of, coffee appeared and vanished, and presently Mrs. Mitford and her daughter were alone.

[Pg 32]

"Now, mumsy," said Christian, "come and sit on this deep sofa and let me cuddle up to you. Let me think that I am a very little girl once more; I want you to pet me and stroke my face. I want to put my head on your shoulder. You don't mind, do you, darling?"

"Oh, Christian!" said Mrs. Mitford, the tears rushing to her eyes, "I only wish you were a little, little girl. Big girls don't suit me half as well. I used to pet you such a lot, and you were so pretty. Don't you remember the time when I took you out driving in your dark-blue velvet pelisse and your blue hat? Don't you remember how the people used to remark on my very pretty little girl?"

"Yes, mumsy," said Christian; "but you can imagine I am your very pretty little girl again, can't you, mumsy?"

Mrs. Mitford said she could; but she was small and Christian was big, and the weight of the child's head on her shoulder tired her. Presently she sat up restlessly and said:

"We are wasting our time; I have a great deal to talk to you about. I don't often see you; I am so busy, you know."

"Yes, mother," said Christian; "but it seems a pity, doesn't it?"

"It can't be helped, dear. Your father is a man of great importance, and I am obliged to be with him all I can. And this is the time for your education. I want you to be a very accomplished girl. I don't care a bit about learning or anything of that sort, but I do want you to play well—so well that people will talk and look at you, and remark on the brilliancy of your touch. And I want you to have a lovely voice. When you are old enough you must have the very best instruction for that. And then I want you to paint a little, and recite; recitations are very popular, only they must be well done. And I want you, of course, to be a good linguist; your[Pg 33] French must be perfect. By-and-by you shall go to Paris to get a proper accent. German is nice too, but not so important as French. Italian would be useful; you are sure to spend a few years in Italy. You must dance beautifully; but then there is no doubt on that point, for you dance well already."

Christian sat very upright; she did not speak.

"Well," said her mother, "does my list of accomplishments appeal to you? Do you want to be all that your mother could desire?"

"You leave out some things," said Christian—"the story part—all about history and the lovely, lovely things that happened long ago. I don't want just to be——"

"Just to be what, dear?"

"I can't explain myself; but when I think—oh, mumsy! I will tell you. You mustn't be angry with me, but I don't want to be a brilliant, accomplished girl; I want to be a heroine."

"You silly, silly child! A heroine! What do you mean?"

"I want to be the sort of girl who would do great things—who would——"

But Mrs. Mitford interrupted her with a little scream.

"You want to be an oddity," she said, "an eccentric horror. Don't come to me and expect my approbation if you are anything of that sort."

Just at that moment the room door was opened, and who should come in but Mr. Mitford. His wife gave a start when she saw him.

"I found I could get away earlier than I expected," was his remark. "I fancied Chris would be with you, and I thought we could have a talk. You both look very charming."

Christian sat close to her mother.

"What a contrast you both are!—you so dark and[Pg 34] piquant, and Christian so tall and fair and blonde. You are very like your grandmother, Chris, and she was a very beautiful and noble woman."

Mrs. Mitford sighed. The color deepened in her cheeks.

"I believe," she said, with a laugh, "that Christian will resemble her grandmother in more ways than one. You know what an eccentric woman she was."

"She was a very good woman, you mean," said Mr. Mitford.

"Yes, Patrick; but eccentric—very eccentric. Do you remember when she insisted on giving up her own dinner to send it to the invalid who lived on the other side of the street? It was ridiculous of her."

"Do tell me!" said Christian suddenly. "Did granny give her dinner to a sick person at the opposite side of the street?"

Mr. Mitford laughed. His dark eyes fixed themselves on Christian's animated face. He stepped up to her, and putting his hand under her chin, looked down at the speaking, bright features.

"You are like her," he said, with a sigh, "the same eyes, the same determined chin, the same expression. Well, my child, I can wish you nothing better than to be as good as your grandmother."

"But tell me about the dinner, father."

Mr. Mitford laughed; then his face grew grave.

"We kept a most perfect cook, for your grandmother was singularly particular with regard to her food. She had a very small appetite, but she always wanted the very best prepared for her, and she could not worry herself about ordering her own food; she liked it to come as a surprise. Now, Adams suited your grandmother's palate to perfection. Day by day the most delicious little dinners were served up. Well, one evening, I don't exactly know how she discovered it, but your grandmother happened to[Pg 35] know that there was a poor lady in the opposite house who refused to eat anything. She was poor, and the house she lived in was nothing like as large and expensive as ours. Your grandmother feared that Mrs. Stirling had not a cook to her taste, so that evening she sent her own special dinner to her. When she found she liked it she sent it again every night."

"But why couldn't she have more dinner cooked for the sick woman?" interrupted Christian.

"Ah, that was the point. Adams would only prepare this very special and choice dinner for your grandmother. She could not be worried to do it for anyone else. Had your grandmother told her that the special meals were to go to Mrs. Stirling they would not have been worth eating, so she gave her own dinner and went hungry. The thing lasted for three weeks."

"And then?" asked Christian.

"Mrs. Stirling died. The people said afterwards that your grandmother's dinners kept her alive for ten days, and that she enjoyed them so much that she used to think about them all day long until they came. The thing was just like your dear old grandmother; she was an oddity, but most unselfish."

"It was a splendid thing to do," said Christian. "It was exactly the very thing I mean to do. I always thought granny looked nice—I mean from her picture—but now I am certain about it. She is a great heroine, and I mean to copy her."

"There, Patrick!" cried his wife; "what mischief you have done by telling Christian that absurd story! There always was a vein of oddity in Christian. I hope you will speak seriously to her, and tell her that during our abs—— I mean henceforward we wish her to attend to her accomplishments, that when she is grown up, and—we have time, we will take her out and be proud of her."

[Pg 36]

Mr. Mitford continued to stand near Christian, and once again he looked into her face; then he said, with a sigh:

"A girl such as your mother has described would be quite acceptable to me. But come, Chris, what have you got in your head?"

"Only that I want to be a heroine," she said.

She stood up as she spoke. Her face looked tired.

"I want to do something big; I want people to remember me when I am dead. I'd like to have a great big obelisk put up over me, and words written on it. And I'd like it to be pointed to, and people to say, 'The woman in memory of whom that obelisk was erected was a benefactress.' That is what I'd like to be, but mother wants me to be——"

"Yes," said her father, who was frowning as well as smiling, and looking with intense earnestness at the child, "and what does mother want you to be?"

"A musician, and to be able to dance; a linguist, and a fine singer. Oh! she wants common, common things——"

"They're admirable things," said the father sternly. "I agree with your mother. But why, my dear child, should not a benefactress be able to sing and dance, and make the world brighter all round? Don't get confused in your mind, Christian. You can be as accomplished as anyone in the world and yet be a noble woman."

Christian looked puzzled. "I didn't think of that," she said. "I do so want to do something—to be a heroine—and I care so little about being just accomplished."

"You had better go to bed now, Christian," said her mother, beginning to yawn. "Always do your duty; that is the main thing. Here is a sovereign for you, pet. You can go out to-morrow and buy something."

Christian looked at it. Her face grew scarlet. Suddenly she said:

[Pg 37]

"But may I keep it? If I don't really want to spend it, may I keep it?"

"Of course you may, if you wish; but what a funny child!"

Mr. Mitford kissed his daughter with much more consideration than he was wont to give to her. Mrs. Mitford gave her a passionate hug.

"Good-night, darling," she said.

When she left the room Christian's parents looked at each other.

"Upon my word," said Mr. Mitford, "Christian astonished me to-night."

"I do trust she won't grow up odd!" was Mrs. Mitford's answer.

"My dear," said her husband, "don't you see that the child is a budding genius? I always thought so, but to-night I am sure of it. I wish I hadn't accepted that appointment, Mary. It is very sad to be parted from that young creature, the only child we have, for six long years."

Mrs. Mitford began to cry.

"Don't, Mary," said her husband in a distressed voice. "It is worse for me to see you mope even than to see Christian moping."

"What I feel so awful," said Mrs. Mitford, "is her not knowing—her thinking that we are to go on as usual. Poor Christian!"

"It is best," said her husband in a decided voice. "I could not stand her tears; I am afraid I am a sad coward, but it's a fact. Of course, she will get over it."

"Get over it," said Mrs. Mitford, with a laugh. "Of course she will. She'll just fret for a bit at first. But that is a splendid school, isn't it?"

"Yes; I went to see it. I liked everything about it. Miss Peacock is a woman in a thousand."

"She will be very happy," said Mrs. Mitford. "She[Pg 38] wants companions, and Miss Neil will be nice to her when she takes her there. She won't have time to fret. Time flies when you are young. She'll be too busy to fret; don't you think so, Patrick?"

"I hope so," he answered; "but I don't believe she is an ordinary child. There, Mary! don't let us talk about her now any more. We must settle other matters to-night."

He pulled some papers out of his pocket, and soon husband and wife were absorbed in abstruse calculations.

Meanwhile Christian put her treasured sovereign into the box which contained all her money.

"Certainly fortune seems to favor me," thought the child. "I shall have eight sovereigns now. Won't Rosy and I have a time!"

She sat down near the fire and began to think. Presently nurse came in.

"Tut, tut, Miss Christian!" she said; "you aint to be dreaming there any longer. You're to go to bed."

"Nursey, I love you," said Christian suddenly.

She ran to the old woman and put her arms round her neck.

"Nursey, did you ever hear that wonderful story about my granny?"

"What story, darling?"

"About her giving her nice, lovely dinner to the dying woman."

"It was like her," said nurse.

"Did you know my granny, nurse?"

"Know her?" exclaimed nurse. "Rather! There weren't her like anywhere to be found. She was always too good for——"

Nurse drew herself up abruptly. She had meant to say, "Too good for the present Mrs. Mitford," but she restrained herself.

[Pg 39]

"There wasn't her like in God's world," she continued. "Dear, it were a sorrowful day when she died."

"Was she very old?" asked Christian.

"No, lovey, not specially—a little past sixty."

"That sounds very old," exclaimed Christian.

"It aint when you come up to it," said nurse. "I'm sixty-five, and I don't count myself such an old woman. It's wonderful what a different view you take of sixty when you are, so to speak, nigh to it."

Christian did not find this an interesting subject. She said after a moment:

"Was granny like me—in appearance, I mean?"

"Well, now, darling, sometimes it has come over me that you have got her build; but you being young and she old, it's difficult to say. Still, I own that you have got her build."

"Father thinks that perhaps I have got her spirit."

"God be thanked if that is so, Miss Christian. It was her wish that you should be called Christian. It was her own name; she inherited it from the Quakers. Her grandfather was a Quaker, and a very strict one; and her mother was called Christian, and then you were, darling. She thought a sight of the name. She said the one thing that fretted her in not having a daughter of her own was not being able to call her Christian."

"Was she fond of me when I came?" asked Christian.

"Yes; she'd often take you in her arms and kiss you, and say that she hoped the spirit of her grandfather, Quaker Joseph Bunn, would descend upon you. But there! you aint to be stopping up any more, so up to bed you go."

Christian went to bed. She felt very thoughtful. Her conscience did not prick her at the thought of running away. She was still firmly convinced that even her father,[Pg 40] who had seemed much nicer than usual to-night, would not mind when once she was out of sight.

"'Out of sight, out of mind' with father and mother," thought the little girl. "And I could never, never live in a strict-discipline school."

Nevertheless Christian knew as she dropped asleep that her grandmother would not have acted as she was going to do. Having always held herself in strict discipline, she would not run away from it. She would obey; she would subdue herself.

"Then I can't be like granny," thought Christian, turning restlessly from side to side on her pillow, "for I want my own way; and I won't go to school, for the school mother has described is a sort of prison."

With an effort she turned her thoughts from her granny and her own secret desire to resemble her, and she thought, until sleep visited her, of Rosy. For the very next day Rosy was to come, and Rosy was to tell her all she had discovered; and they were finally to make their plans, for the time when Christian would run away from Russell Square was close at hand.

[Pg 41]

CHAPTER V

CHANGE OF A SOVEREIGN

When Rosy arrived on the following evening she looked very much excited; her eyes were bright, and there was a lot of color in her cheeks. Beside her Christian looked pale and scarcely pretty at all.

The little girl sat down on a stool near the fire in the nursery and warmed her hands, chatted loud and long to nurse, and laughed continually.

"One would think," said nurse after a pause, "that you did not love Miss Christian one little bit. I never saw anyone in such riotous spirits, and I must say it aint becoming."

"Oh, don't I love Christian?" said Rosy. "Don't you go and draw wrong conclusions, great-aunt. I love her better nor anybody else—there!"

"Well, child, that's all right. Here comes Miss Christian. Now listen, Rosy. You are not to stay long; you are to go away in about half-an-hour, for my young lady looks very peaky."

Christian sat by the fire. Nurse gathered up her work and prepared to go into the schoolroom. She knew the children would like to be alone, and she had promised to help Miss Thompson in her constant search after Christian's possessions.

"A more untidy child I never saw," said Miss Thompson when the old woman entered the room. "But there! I do pity her. I think it is perfectly awful the way the poor child is kept in the dark. It is that that worries me."

[Pg 42]

"Well," said nurse, "there's sense in it too. She won't have time to fret; it will be one sharp blow and then the worst will be over. Miss Christian has got fancies and all kinds of romances about her, and she'd conjure up horrors like anything. Children who conjure up ought to be kept from brooding; that's what I say."

Meanwhile the two girls in the cozy nursery were sitting side by side.

"I have eight sovereigns," began Christian. "I've got another since I saw you last. Mother gave it to me."

"Oh, golloptious!" said Rosy.

"Do you think eight sovereigns will go a long, long way? Do you think they will be enough till we have made our fortunes by being tambourine and dancing girls?" exclaimed Christian.

"To be sure they will!" answered Rosy. "Now, Christian, you listen. I have it planned splendid. You'll have to do it this way, and this alone. My friend that I told you of aint much to look at, but she's clever. My word! I never came across anyone with such brains. I spoke to her last night. She is apprenticed to a dressmaker next door to mother, and she's sick of it."

"But my eight pounds won't support three people," said Christian, speaking hastily, and with a strong dislike to Rosy's friend rising up at once in her heart.

"You needn't fear that," said Rosy. "Judith aint going to have anything to do with us; she couldn't if she wished, for she's apprenticed to a dressmaker, and her mother would be mad if she even thought of such a thing. But what she will do is this. She'll meet us and take us to some nice lodgings, where we can stay all by ourselves for a couple of days. If you say the word to-night, Miss Christian, she'll hire the little room for us. I said you wouldn't mind it being humble, and she said she knew one in a very respectable house—of course nowhere near[Pg 43] here—a little room at the top, where there'd be a cozy bed for us. Think of you and me sleeping so warm side by side. And we could have a fire if we wanted it, and we could cook red herrings and make our own tea."

"It would be fun," said Christian, her eyes gleaming. "Children have done that before when they were poor, haven't they? It would be like the old story-books about children who lived in London and nearly starved but came out all right in the end."

"Yes, yes," said Rosy; "but you listen. She'll take the room to-morrow if you say the word, and it will be all ready for us when we get there on Tuesday."

"Oh," said Christian—"Tuesday! But oughtn't we to run away on Monday?"

"No; that won't do at all. I told Judith, and she said you'd be found out. What you must do is this. You must get to the station. You must walk up to the book-stall. You say to that Miss Neil that you want a picture-book——"

"Which I don't," said Christian. "I hate picture-books."

"Well, any sort; it don't matter. Then you watch your chance and mix up with the crowd and come out, and stand outside and wait for me."

"But how will you know what station to go to?"

Rosy laughed. "You'll say that I am very clever when I tell you," she answered. "Do you know that I picked up a letter that your mother had dropped, and it was from that fine school of yours—oh! I wouldn't like to be imprisoned there—and all directions were given. You were to go from Paddington Station; so I'll be there, and so will Judith, and we'll take you away before Miss Neil finds out anything. Don't you see what a splendid plan it is? Your father and mother will be off two hours before you, and they won't be fretted at all. By the time the news[Pg 44] reaches them that you are lost, you may be able to write a letter and tell 'em that you are earning your own living in London and doing fine."

Christian's cheeks were now almost as red as Rosy's.

"It does sound too splendid," she said. "I wonder if I'll have strength to do it."

"Why, Miss Christian, what do you mean?"

"Well, you know, Rosy, it isn't good of me; it's downright bad of me."

"Oh, I didn't know," said Rosy, "that we was to think of the virtues. I thought you wasn't a bit that sort of goody-goody kind."

"Nor am I," said Christian, reddening. "But since I saw you I have heard about my grandmother, and she—she was wonderfully good. And she had spirit, too, Rosy—far more spirit than either you or I have. But she never thought of pleasing herself; that was the amazing thing about her."

"Well, no one can call you selfish, Miss Christian."

"But when I run away from the strict-discipline school I do please myself, don't I?" answered Christian.

Rosy had no answer for that; but presently her little face puckered up and she began to cry.

"I was that troubled," she began, bringing out the words through her sobs; "and Judith Ford—I promised her five shillings; so I did. I knew you'd pay it for getting her to hire the room and for going to Paddington with me. And I thought I wouldn't be scolded any more, nor have my finger pricked by the horrid needlework, nor anything of that sort; and now——"

"Well?" said Christian.

"You are backing out of it; I can see that. You aint half nor quarter as anxious about it as you were when last we met."

"You needn't be frightened," said Christian coldly.[Pg 45] "I asked you to help me, and I mean to go through with it; but as to its not being painful—I know it will be necessary, but it is horribly painful. I can scarcely bear to look my mother and father in the face."

"Well!" said Rosy, "I could look mother straight enough in the face. I didn't sauce her half as much to-day, for thinking that I'd be away from her and the horrid needlework in less than a week. Oh, I am happy! And we'll get a little monkey and tambourines, and we'll practise like anything in our dear, snug little room; and we'll start walking along the streets and getting pence from the passers-by by the end of next week."

Christian's eyes once again sparkled. The scheme was fascinating. She found herself, as it were, between two positions. At one side was the school, strict—very strict—far away from London, where she would be received and, as it were, locked up in prison for years and years and years; no holidays to look forward to, for holidays were to be spent at school; no friends that she loved to greet her or speak to her. She was slow in making friends, and Rosy was dearer to her than any other girl. Certainly the other prospect was more alluring. It did not occur to her that the small room would be anything but spotlessly clean, with snowy sheets to the bed, and pretty, bright furniture, and a dear little fire in the grate; and she had always longed to taste red herrings. She thought that the food of the poor would be nice as a change—at least for a time. Then there would be the life in the open air, and the other tambourine-girls looking on and envying and wondering. And the monkey should certainly be called Jacko, for there was no other name so sweet for him. And she would love him and teach him no end of tricks, and he would sleep with her at night.

"Yes, Rosy, I will do it," she said. "I am sorry I[Pg 46] seemed to hesitate. You can't quite understand everything about me; but I'll do it safe enough."

"That's right," said Rosy. "And now, do you think, Miss Christian, that you could let me have five shillings?"

"What for?" asked Christian.

"Well, it's for this: Judith can't hire us a room unless she pays in advance. She has one now in her mind's eye—a beauty—like a bird's nest, she said—the cosiest spot on earth. She wouldn't like to lose it. She must get it to-morrow, and we'll take possession of it on Tuesday, but we must pay a week in advance."

"I have only got my sovereigns," said Christian. "It will seem rather strange my changing one."

"All right," said Rosy; "only I don't suppose I dare come again. Can't you get it for me anyhow? Great-aunt has always a lot of change, I know."

Christian considered, and then she went into the schoolroom. Her purse containing her treasure was in her own private desk, and that desk stood on a little round table near one of the windows. It was always kept locked, and Christian kept the key fastened on to her watch-chain. She unlocked the desk now and took out the purse. The night before she had deposited the new sovereign with its seven companions. She looked sadly at her little store. It seemed a pity to break it. But, after all, Rosy's request was reasonable; Judith Ford could not be expected to get a room for them without money.

Both nurse and Miss Thompson were in the room, and they looked attentively at Christian as she entered.

"Well, Miss Christian," said nurse, "has Rosy made herself scarce? Quite time for her to do it, little puss!"

[Pg 47]

"Yes, Christian, you really must go to bed now," said Miss Thompson.

Christian colored. "I want to change this," she said, and she laid the sovereign on the table.

"Whatever for, my pet?" said nurse.

"It is for Rosy; I want——"

"No; nothing of the kind," said nurse—"nothing of the kind! I'm not going to have my great-niece taking presents from you, Miss Christian; and money, too, forsooth! Just like the brass of that little thing! But I'll soon——"

"Nursey, nursey," cried Christian, almost in tears, "you don't know; you can't understand. Please—please let me have some change; I want to give Rosy five shillings. It isn't as a present; it is for something she is to do for me."

"Of course you can have the change, Christian," said Miss Thompson; and she went to her desk, and presently laid half a sovereign and four half-crowns on the table. She took up the sovereign, and Christian ran into the nursery with the money.

"Here it is," she said, thrusting two half-crowns into Rosy's hands; "and I had great work to get it. Nursey thought I wanted to give you a present."

"I'll have something to say to my great-aunt if she doesn't change her manners," was Rosy's response. "Thank you, Miss Christian; you couldn't, I suppose, let me have another half-crown as well?"

"What for?" said Christian, who felt that her money was already beginning to melt with wonderful rapidity.

"Well, you see, miss, it is to pay for Judith's time, and for me and her to go to Paddington in time to meet you. This sort of thing can't be done without a little outlay, Miss Christian. Afterwards, when we are settled down, we'll be as economical as you like."

[Pg 48]

"There, take it," said Christian.

She thrust the money into Rosy's hand and dashed from the room. She did not even wait to bid her friend good-night; she felt at that moment that she almost disliked her.

[Pg 49]

CHAPTER VI

SIX LONG YEARS

Monday night had arrived. The long days of waiting and suspense were nearly over. Christian looked paler than ever. She no longer asked questions or tried to draw people into betraying themselves. She often sat for half an hour at a time staring straight before her. Nurse was frightened when she looked at her; even Miss Thompson did not care to meet her gaze.

Shortly after tea on Monday evening Miss Thompson ran downstairs and burst suddenly into Mrs. Mitford's presence. Mrs. Mitford was engaged with her own packing, which had to be done in the most judicious way. She had given the child to understand that she and her father were going to the south of France for a time.

"We are going there," she said to the governess. "Don't look at me so reproachfully. You know we are going to Marseilles, and surely that is the south of France."

"Well," said Miss Thompson, "I must speak. I don't like it, Mrs. Mitford; I don't like it at all. I'm glad the time of deception is over. Sometimes, do you know, I think Christian guesses."

"Christian guesses!" cried her mother. "How could she? I hope you have been careful. I told you all her things were to be packed in the north spare-room. She is taking almost everything new with her. She needn't have known anything. You have told; you have betrayed your trust."

[Pg 50]

"No, I have not," said Miss Thompson quietly. "I have been as careful as a woman could be. But Christian is a sharp child, and she can put two and two together. I suppose, Mrs. Mitford, you will soon tell her now?"

"She is coming down to see me after dinner this evening. Her father will be present. We will tell her then," said Mrs. Mitford.

The governess was turning to leave the room. Once again she came back.

"I know you won't do it," she said, "and yet I long to ask you to. I do so wish you would let me take her to school instead of——"

"Really!" said Mrs. Mitford.

She was a very imperious little woman; she hated anyone even to suggest that her way was not the right way.

"Really!" she repeated. "I am sorry, but I cannot have my plans interfered with. My friend Miss Neil will take Christian to the school."

Tears sprang to Miss Thompson's eyes.

"It is only that she loves me, and she does not care for Miss Neil."

"Very silly of her!" said the mother. "She will have to see a good deal of Miss Neil while we are away. You would like me to write that recommendation for you to-night, Miss Thompson? Well, I have nothing but good to say of you. I hope you will get a comfortable situation before long."

"Thank you," said Miss Thompson a little coldly.

She left the room and returned to the schoolroom, where Christian was pretending to read a new story-book her father had given her that morning. It was rather old-fashioned. She did not exactly care for it; she thought there were too many characters, and that the plot was not brisk enough. Nevertheless she went on reading it. It[Pg 51] would probably interest her later on; she knew that her mind was not with the written words that night.

"Do you know that you are to go down to see your father and mother after dinner?" said Miss Thompson.

"Yes, of course I do," said Christian.

She turned very white and dropped her book.

"You are not well, dear; you don't look at all well."

"I am quite well, thank you, Miss Thompson."

"What dress will you wear, Christian?"

"I don't think it matters much."

"They would like to see you looking nice. Your pink frock is new; will you put it on?"

"If you like."

It was between eight and nine that evening when Christian, beautifully dressed as usual, and looking tall and straight, and with a certain curious defiance about her, and yet with an inward trembling, passionate love vibrating through her frame, entered the presence of her father and mother. Of course she knew what was coming. They did not guess that, but the very fact, although it reduced her to despair, kept her also calm. There was no uncertainty about the moment that lay before her.

Mr. Mitford felt extremely nervous. He was fond of Christian—fonder than he cared to own. He was a very busy man, and seldom had more than a minute or two to devote to his wife and child, but he felt that Christian and he could be great friends if they had enough time to get better acquainted with each other.

Mrs. Mitford was certain that she would burst into passionate tears, and thus disgrace herself forever in her husband's eyes. Therefore, when Christian entered with her bold, firm step, she could not help looking at the child with admiration.

"She will be a beauty by and by," thought the mother; "she is remarkable-looking now."

[Pg 52]

The father, as he glanced at her, thought, "She is my mother over again; it is a sin to leave her."

Filled with a sudden tenderness, he moved up an inch or two on the sofa in order to make room for Christian to sit by his side.

"We have sent for you, Christian," said her mother; "we have—— You tell, won't you, Patrick?"