followed her. I think the old lady had made her a little sign to do so, though I did not see it. Afterwards I found out that Mrs. Cranston had thought me looking very ill, worse than she had expected, and she wanted to hear from Miss Fenmore if it was natural to me to look so pale.

I myself, though feeling tired and disinclined to talk, was really happier than I had been for a very long time. There was a delightful sensation of being safe and at home, even though the kind people who had taken me in, like a poor little stray bird, were strangers. The very look of the old-fashioned room and the comfortable great big four-post bed made me hug myself when I thought how different it all was from the bare cold room at Green Bank, where there had never once been a fire all the weeks I was there. It reminded me of something – what was it? Oh yes, in a minute or two I remembered. It was the room I had once slept in with mamma at grandmamma's house in London, several years before, when I was quite a little girl. For dear grandmamma had died soon after we came to live at Great Mexington. But there was the same comfortable old-fashioned feeling: red curtains to the window and the bed, and a big fire and the shiny dark mahogany furniture. Oh yes, how well I remembered it, and how enormous the bed seemed, and how mamma tucked me in at night and left the door a little open in case I should feel lonely before she came to bed. It all came back to me so that I forgot where I was for the moment, till I felt a little tug given to the hand that Myra was still holding, and heard her voice say very softly,

"Are you going to sleep, Geraldine?"

This brought me back to the present.

"Oh no," I said, "I'm not sleepy. I was only thinking," and I told her what had come into my mind.

She listened with great interest.

"How unhappy you must have been when your mamma went away," she said. "I can't remember my own mamma, but mother" – she meant her stepmother – "is so kind, and granny is so sweet. I've never been lonely."

"You can't fancy what it's like," I said. "It wasn't only mamma's going away; I know Haddie – that's my brother – loves her as much as I do, but he's not very unhappy, because he likes his school. Oh, Myra, what shall I do when I have to go back to school? I'd rather be ill always. Do you think I'll have to go back to-morrow?"

Myra looked most sympathising and concerned.

"I don't think you'll be quite well to-morrow," was the best comfort she could give me. "When I have bad colds and sore throats they always last longer than one day."

"I'd like to talk a great lot to keep my throat from getting quite well," I said, "but I suppose that would be very naughty."

"Yes," said Myra with conviction, "I'm sure it would be. You really mustn't talk, Geraldine; granny said so. Mayn't I read aloud to you? I've brought a book with me – it's an old story-book of mamma's that she had when she was a little girl. Granny keeps them here all together. This one is called Ornaments Discovered."

"Thank you," I said. "Yes, I should like it very much."

And in her gentle little voice Myra read the quaint old story aloud to me. It was old-fashioned even then, for the book had belonged to her mother, if not in the first place to her grandmother. How very old-world it would seem to the children of to-day – I wonder if any of you know it? For I am growing quite an old woman myself, and the little history of my childhood that I am telling you will, before long, be half a century in age, though its events seem as clear and distinct to me as if they had only happened quite recently! I came across the little red gilt-leaved book not long ago in the house of one of Myra's daughters, and with the sight of it a whole flood of memories rushed over me.

It was not a very exciting story, but I found it very interesting, and now and then my little friend stopped to talk about it, which I found very interesting too. I was quite sorry when Miss Fenmore, who had come back to the room and was sitting quietly sewing, told Myra that she thought she had read enough, and that it must be near dinner-time.

"I will come again after dinner," said Myra, and then I whispered something to her. She nodded; she quite understood me. What I said was this:

"I wish you would go downstairs and tell the carved lions that they made me very happy last night, and I am so glad they brought me back here to you, instead of taking me to Green Bank."

"Where did they take you to in the night?" said Myra with great interest, though not at all as if she thought I was talking nonsense.

"I'll tell you all about it afterwards," I said. "It was beautiful. But it would take a long time to tell, and I'm rather tired."

"You are looking tired, dear," said Miss Fenmore, who heard my last words, as she gave me a cupful of beef-tea. "Try to go to sleep for a little, and then Myra can come to sit with you again."

I did go to sleep, but Myra was not allowed to see me again that day, nor the next – nor for several days after, except for a very few minutes at a time. For I did not improve as the kind people about me had hoped I would, and Dr. Fallis looked graver when he came that evening than he had done in the morning. Miss Fenmore was afraid she had let me talk too much, but after all I do not think anything would have made any great difference. I had really been falling out of health for months past, and I should probably have got ill in some other way if I had not caught cold in my wanderings. I do not very clearly remember those days of serious illness. I knew whenever I was awake that I was being tenderly cared for, and in the half-dozing, half-dreaming state in which many hours must have been passed, I fancied more than once that mamma was beside me, which made me very happy. And though never actually delirious, I had very strange though not unpleasant dreams, especially about the carved lions; none of them, however, so clear and real as the one I related at full in the last chapter.

On the whole, that illness left more peaceful and sweet memories than memories of pain. Through it all I had the delightful feeling of being cared for and protected, and somehow it all seemed to have to do with the pair of lions downstairs in Mr. Cranston's show-room!

CHAPTER XII
GOOD NEWS

I don't suppose there was anything really infectious about my illness, though nowadays whenever there is any sort of sore throat people are very much on their guard. Perhaps they were not so cautious long ago. However that may have been, Myra was not banished from my room for very long. I rather think, indeed, that she used to creep in and sit like a little mouse behind the curtains before I was well enough to notice her.

But everything for a time seemed dreamy to me. The first event I can quite clearly recall was my being allowed to sit up for an hour or two, or, more correctly speaking, to lie up, for I was lifted on to the sofa and tucked in almost as if I were still in bed.

That was a very happy afternoon. It was happy for several reasons, for that morning had brought me the first letter I had had from dear mamma since she had heard of my bold step in running away from school! Lying still and silent for so many hours as I had done, things had grown to look differently to me. I began to see where and how I had been wrong, and to think that if I had been more open about my troubles, more courageous – that is to say, if I had gone to Miss Ledbury and told her everything that was on my mind – I need not have been so terribly unhappy or caused trouble and distress to others.

A little of this mamma pointed out to me in her letter, which was, however, so very kind and loving, so full of sorrow that I had been so unhappy, that I felt more grateful than I knew how to express. Afterwards, when we talked it all over, years afterwards even, for we often talked of that time after I was grown up and married, and had children of my own, mamma said to me that she could not blame me though she knew I had not done right, for she felt so broken-hearted at the thought of what I had suffered.

It had been a mistake, no doubt, to send me to Green Bank, but mistakes are often overruled for good. I am glad to have had the experience of it, as I think it made me more sympathising with others. And it made me determine never to send any child of mine, or any child I had the care of, to a school where there was so little feeling of home, so little affection and gentleness – above all, that dreadful old-world rule of letters being read, and the want of trust and confidence in the pupils, which showed in so many ways.

A few days after I received mamma's letter I was allowed to write to her. It was slow and tiring work, for I was only able to write a few lines at a time, and that in pencil. But it was delightful to be free to say just what I wanted to say, without the terrible feeling of Miss Aspinall, or worse still Miss Broom, judging and criticising every line. I thanked mamma with my whole heart for not being angry with me, and to show her how truly I meant what I said, I promised her that when I was well again and able to go back to school I would try my very, very best to get on more happily.

But I gave a deep sigh as I wrote this, and Myra, who was sitting beside me, looked up anxiously, and asked what was the matter.

"Oh, Myra," I said, "it is just that I can't bear to think of going back to school. I'd rather never get well if only I could stay here till mamma comes home."

"Dear little Geraldine," said Myra – she often called me "little" though she was scarcely any taller than I – "dear little Geraldine, you mustn't say that. I don't think it's right. And, you know, when you are quite well again things won't seem so bad to you. I remember once when I was ill – I was quite a little girl then," – Myra spoke as if she was now a very big girl indeed! – "I think it was when I had had the measles, the least thing vexed me dreadfully. I cried because somebody had given me a present of a set of wooden tea-things in a box, and the tea ran out of the cups when I filled them! Fancy crying for that!"

"I know," I said, "I've felt like that too. But this is a real trouble, Myra – a real, very bad, dreadful trouble, though I've promised mamma to try to be good. Do you think, Myra, that when I'm back at school your grandmamma will sometimes ask me to come to see you?"

"I'm sure – " my little friend began eagerly. But she was interrupted. For curiously enough, just at that moment Mrs. Cranston opened the door and came in. She came to see me every day, and though at first I was just a tiny bit afraid of her – she seemed to me such a very old lady – I soon got to love her dearly, and to talk to her quite as readily as to kind Miss Fenmore.

"What is my little girl sure about?" she said. "And how is my other little girl to-day? Not too tired," and she glanced at my letter. "You have not been writing too much, dearie, I hope?"

"No, thank you," I replied, "I'm not tired."

"She's only rather unhappy, granny," said Myra.

"I think that's a very big 'only,'" said Mrs. Cranston. "Can't you tell me, my dear, what you are unhappy about?"

I glanced at Myra, as if asking her to speak for me. She understood.

"Granny," she said, "poor little Geraldine is unhappy to think of going away and going back to school."

Mrs. Cranston looked at me very kindly.

"Poor dear," she said, "you have not had much pleasure with us, as you have been ill all the time."

"I don't mind," I said. "I was telling Myra, only she thought it was naughty, that I'd rather be ill always if I was with kind people, than – than – be at school where nobody cares for me."

"Well, well, my dear, the troubles we dread are often those that don't come to pass. Try to keep up your spirits and get quite well and strong, so that you may be able to enjoy yourself a little before both you and Myra leave us."

"Oh, is Myra going away?" I said. "I thought she was going to live here always," and somehow I felt as if I did not mind quite so much to think of going away myself in that case.

"Oh no," said the old lady, "Myra has her own home where she must spend part of her time, though grandfather and I hope to have her here a good deal too. It is easy to manage now Miss Fenmore is with her always."

In my heart I thought Myra a most fortunate child —two homes were really hers; and I – I had none. This thought made me sigh again. I don't know if Myra guessed what I was thinking of, but she came close up to me and put her arms round my neck and kissed me.

"Geraldine," she whispered, by way of giving me something pleasant to think of, perhaps, "as soon as you are able to walk about a little I want you to come downstairs with me to see the lions."

"Yes," I said in the same tone, "but you did give them my message, Myra?"

"Of course I did, and they sent you back their love, and they are very glad you're better, and they want you very much indeed to come to see them."

Myra and I understood each other quite well about the lions, you see.

I went on getting well steadily after that, and not many days later I went downstairs with Myra to the big show-room to see the lions. It gave me such a curious feeling to remember the last time I had been there, that rainy evening when I crept in, as nearly broken-hearted and in despair as a little girl could be. And as I stroked the lions and looked up in their dark mysterious faces, I could not get rid of the idea that they knew all about it, that somehow or other they had helped and protected me, and when I tried to express this to Myra she seemed to think the same.

After this there were not many days on which we did not come downstairs to visit our strange play-fellows, and not a few interesting games or "actings," as Myra called them, did we invent, in which the lions took their part.

We were only allowed to be in the show-rooms at certain hours of the day, when there were not likely to be any customers there. Dear old Mrs. Cranston was as particular as she possibly could be not to let me do anything or be seen in any way which mamma could possibly have disliked.

And before long I began to join a little in Myra's lessons with Miss Fenmore – lessons which our teacher's kind and "understanding" ways made delightful. So that life was really very happy for me at this time, except of course for the longing for mamma and father and Haddie, which still came over me in fits, as it were, every now and then, and except – a still bigger "except" – for the dreaded thought of the return to school which must be coming nearer day by day.

Myra and I never spoke of it. I tried to forget about it, and she seemed to enter into my feeling without saying anything.

I had had a letter from mamma in answer to the one I wrote to her just after my illness. In it she said she was pleased with all I said, and my promise to try to get on better at Green Bank, but "in the meantime," she wrote, "what we want you to do is to get quite strong and well, so put all troubling thoughts out of your head and be happy with your kind friends."

That letter had come a month ago, and the last mail had only brought me a tiny little note enclosed in a letter from mamma to Mrs. Cranston, with the promise of a longer one "next time." And "next time" was about due, for the mail came every fortnight, one afternoon when Myra and I were sitting together in our favourite nook in the show-room.

"I have a fancy, Myra," I said, "that something is going to happen. My lion has been so queer to-day – I see a look on his face as if he knew something."

For we had each chosen one lion as more particularly our own.

"I think they always look rather like that," said Myra dreamily. "But I suppose something must happen soon. I shall be going home next week."

"Next week," I repeated. "Oh, Myra!"

I could not speak for a moment. Then I remembered how I had made up my mind to be brave.

"Do you mind going home?" I asked. "I mean, are you sorry to go?"

"I'm always sorry to leave grandpapa and grandmamma," she said, "and the lions, and this funny old house. But I'm very happy at home, and I shall like it still better with Miss Fenmore. No, I wouldn't be unhappy – I'd be very glad to think of seeing father and mother and my little brothers again – I wouldn't be unhappy, except for – you know, Geraldine – for leaving you," and my little friend's voice shook.

"Dear Myra," I said. "But you mustn't mind about me. I'm going to try – " but here I had to stop to choke down something in my throat. "After all," I went on, after a moment or two, "more than a quarter of the time that father and mamma have to be away is gone. And perhaps in the summer holidays I shall see Haddie."

"I wish – " Myra was beginning, but a voice interrupted her. It was Miss Fenmore's.

"I have brought you down a letter that has just come by the second post, Geraldine, dear," she said; "a letter from South America."

"Oh, thank you," I said, eagerly seizing it.

Miss Fenmore strolled to the other side of the room, and Myra followed her, to leave me alone to read my letter. It was a pretty long one, but I read it quickly, so quickly that when I had finished it, I felt breathless – and then I turned over the pages and glanced at it again. I felt as if I could not believe what I read. It was too good, too beautifully good to be true.

"Myra," I gasped, and Myra ran back to me, looking quite startled. I think I must have grown very pale.

"No, no," I went on, "it's nothing wrong. Read it, or ask Miss Fenmore – she reads writing quicker. Oh, Myra, isn't it beautiful?"

They soon read it, and then we all three kissed and hugged each other, and Myra began dancing about as if she had gone out of her mind.

"Geraldine, Geraldine, I can't believe it," she kept saying, and Miss Fenmore's pretty eyes were full of tears.

I wonder if any of my readers can guess what this delightful news was? It was not that mamma was coming home – no, that could not be yet. But next best to that it certainly was.

It was to tell me this – that till dear father and she returned, my home was to be with Myra, and I was to be Miss Fenmore's pupil too. Wherever Myra was, there I was to be – principally at her father's vicarage in the country, but some part of the year with her kind grandparents at Great Mexington. It was all settled and arranged – of course I did not trouble my head about the money part of it, though afterwards mamma told me that both Mr. and Mrs. Raby and the Cranstons had been most exceedingly kind, making out that the advantage of a companion for their little girl would be so great that all the thanking should be on their side, though, of course, they respected father too much not to let him pay a proper share of all the expense. And it really cost less than my life at Green Bank, though father was now a good deal richer, and would not have minded paying a good deal more to ensure my happiness.

There is never so much story to tell when people are happy, and things go rightly; and the next year or two of my life, except of course for the separation from my dear parents, were very happy. Even though father's appointment in South America kept him and mamma out there for nearly three years instead of two, I was able to bear the disappointment in a very different way, with such kind and sympathising friends at hand to cheer me, so that there is nothing bitter or sad to look back to in that part of my childhood. Haddie spent the summer holidays with me, either at Crowley vicarage, or sometimes at the sea-side, where Miss Fenmore took care of us three. Once or twice he and I paid a visit to Mrs. Selwood, which we enjoyed pretty well, as we were together, though otherwise it was rather dull.

And oh, how happy it was when father and mamma at last came home – no words can describe it. It was not quite unmixed pleasure – nothing ever is, the wise folk say – for there was the separation from Myra and her family. But after all, that turned out less than we feared. Miss Fenmore married soon after, and as father had now a good post in London, and we lived there, it was settled that Myra should be with us, and join in my lessons for a good part of the year, while I very often went back to Crowley with her for the summer holidays. And never without staying a few days at Great Mexington, to see Mr. and Mrs. Cranston and the lions!

Many years have passed since I went there for the last time. Myra's grandparents have long been dead – my own dear father and mother are dead too, for I am growing quite old. My grandchildren are older now than I was when I ran away from the school at Green Bank. But once, while mamma was still alive and well, she and I together strolled through the streets of the grim town, which had for a time been our home, and lived over the old days again in fancy. I remember how tightly I clasped her hand when we passed the corner where once was the old Quakeress's shop – all changed now – and walked down the street, still not very different from what it had been, where we used to live.

There was no use in going to Mr. Cranston's show-rooms – they had long been done away with. But the lions are still to be seen. They stand in the hall of Myra's pretty house in the country, where she and Haddon, her husband, have lived for many years, ever since my brother left the army and they came home for good from India.

I spend a part of every year with them, for I am alone now. They want me to live with them altogether, but I cling to a little home of my own. Our grandchildren know the lions well, and stroke their smooth sides, and gaze up into their dark faces just as Myra and I used to do. So I promised them that sometime I would write out the simple story that I have now brought to a close.