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"You are all so kind to me, and have made me so happy," Cousin
Becky murmured, in a slightly tremulous tone, much touched by the
little boy's spontaneous act of affection; "I felt such a lonely old
woman that night I arrived here a month ago your welcome warmed
and cheered my heart as nothing else could have done."

"This will be your home too, now," Roger remarked reflectively; "you
see, mother, father was right: Cousin Becky is satisfied with our
ways."

When Mr. Trent returned at six o'clock, he brought the news that
Caleb Glubb had rallied somewhat, and it was now hoped his life
would be spared. "I called at the hospital on my way home from the
office," he explained, "and made inquiries. I am glad you have been
to see Sarah," he said to his wife. "We must try to help her in any
little way we can."

And during the days which followed, the Trents found various ways
of assisting their old servant out of their slender means, by small
acts of self-sacrifice ungrudgingly rendered; and Cousin Becky
busied herself in mending some garments of Polly's which the little
girl had outgrown, for the use of poor Sarah's children.

"Do you know, Sarah tells me that on each Saturday morning since
her husband's accident, she has received a postal order for a
sovereign," Mrs. Trent informed the others one evening, a few weeks
later. "It has always come by post, from Beaworthy, anonymously,
and she cannot imagine who it is that sends it. It flashed through my
mind it might be Janie; but, if so, why should she send it
anonymously?"

"Oh, it isn't Aunt Janie, because she didn't even know about the
accident till this afternoon," rejoined Roger. "I met her in the town,
and she spoke to me, and asked for you all, and especially for
Cousin Becky. I told her Cousin Becky was making up some clothing
for Sarah's children—she remembered Sarah when she lived with us
as cook, but she hadn't heard of the accident to Caleb. I wonder
Uncle John hadn't told her. So, you see, it isn't Aunt Janie who sends
the postal orders."

"Perhaps it's Uncle John," suggested Polly.

"He would not send them anonymously. No, it is some good fairy,"
said Mrs. Trent with a smile, "who does not wish to be known. Well,
the money is proving a great blessing and is going where it is really
required."

"I told Aunt Janie that Cousin Becky is going to stay on with us,"
Roger remarked. "She was awfully astonished."

"Why? What did she say?" asked Polly, her curiosity aroused.

"She said, 'I am utterly amazed!' and she looked it," the little boy
answered, with emphasis in his tone.

Cousin Becky gave a soft involuntary laugh, which made everyone

glance at her with surprise. She was apparently intensely amused,
for her eyes were dancing with merriment. She had improved both in
health and spirits during the few weeks she had been at Beaworthy,
and was evidently quite contented and happy. A cheerful soul was
Cousin Becky, one of those who are like a gleam of sunshine in the
house, one whose very presence was invigorating. Mrs. Trent had
discovered already that Cousin Becky knew a great deal more about
the management of a small income than she did herself, and was
always ready with advice or help, if either was wanted; and the
children had found out that the old lady could, and was willing to,
assist them in the preparation of their lessons.

"Why, how clever she is!" Roger had exclaimed on one occasion,
after Cousin Becky had helped him with his Latin. "She knows about
everything, it seems to me, and yet she's not a bit stuck up."

Even Louisa had her word of praise for the new inmate of the
household. "She's the most helpful body I ever knew," she confided
to her mistress. "She gives no trouble at all, and I'm really glad she's
going to stay."

CHAPTER IX
A MORNING WALK

It was April, and the boys of the Beaworthy Grammar School were
having a fortnight's vacation, only a few days of which had passed
as yet, so that it greatly astonished Polly and Roger Trent to be
informed by their cousin, whom they met in the town one morning,
that he wished the holidays were over.

"Are you so fond of work, then?" Polly questioned, in her surprise.

"No, certainly not," he answered, regarding her sharply to see if she

was laughing at him, "but I've nothing to do. Mother has several
visitors staying in the house, all grown-up people, and they're no fun
whatever, and I've no one to talk to or play with. Where are you two
off?" he asked, glancing at the big basket the little girl was carrying.

"We are going gathering primroses," Roger explained. "Would you

—" He hesitated, looking inquiringly at his sister; then, as she
nodded, he continued: "Would you like to go with us?"

"I don't mind if I do," Edgar responded condescendingly.

"You needn't if you don't care about it," Polly said quickly, "we can do
quite well without you."
"Oh, I want to go with you," Edgar assured her; "I should like the
walk, but I don't care about the primroses. I have heaps of flowers at
home."

"I suppose you have," said Polly with a faint sigh, "but we have none,
you know. The gardens at the Rookery must be looking lovely now
with all the spring flowers in bloom; I remember last year you had a
lot of daffodils—beauties!"

"So we have now; you ought to come and see them, Polly." There
was a wistful expression in the little girl's countenance which
somewhat touched her cousin, and he remembered what a long time
had passed since she had paid a visit to his home. "Why don't you
come?" he continued. "Mother would be very glad to see you, you
know."

"Would she? I don't know so much about that," Polly responded

bluntly, with a short laugh; "if Aunt Janie wanted to see me she'd
invite me to the Rookery, I shouldn't think of going there otherwise."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation after this. The

children were, by now, nearing the outskirts of the town, and coming
to the clay works, which formed the chief industry of the
neighbourhood. The high road adjoining the works had a row of
labourers' cottages on either side, with small gardens in front.

"That's where our old servant, Sarah Glubb, lives," said Roger,
indicating one of these dwellings; "and, look! There's Sarah herself in
the doorway."

"Oh, I must speak to her for a minute!" cried Polly. "I know it was
visiting-day at the hospital yesterday, so for certain she saw her
husband then; I want to ask her how he is."

Sarah—a neat, pleasant-faced woman—stood with her baby in her

arms. She smiled at the children as they approached, and they stood
talking to her a short while—at least, Polly and Roger talked, whilst
Edgar listened. As Polly had imagined, Sarah had been to see her
husband on the preceding day, and had been cheered to find him
much better.

"The nurse told me the doctor considers Caleb will be able to come
home in about another fortnight," she said happily; "but I am afraid it
will be some weeks longer before he will be strong enough to work in
the clay pits," she added, her countenance clouding slightly.

"Does your good fairy still remember you, Sarah?" Polly questioned
anxiously.

"Yes, miss," Sarah answered, a radiant smile driving the gloom from
her face, "so perhaps she—or maybe it's he—will go on helping me
till my man's able to work for me and the little ones again. I only wish
I knew who it is that is being such a friend to me, that I do. God bless
whoever it is, I say—aye, and He will."

"What did you mean about a good fairy, Polly?" questioned Edgar as
soon as he and his cousins were out of Sarah's hearing. "There are
no fairies nowadays."

"There's one who sends a present to Sarah every week," Polly

responded gravely. "Isn't there, Roger?"

Roger nodded, and meeting each other's eyes the sister and brother
laughed. Edgar looked vexed, for he had an idea his companions
were poking fun at him, and he stood much on his dignity. However,
Roger promptly explained that Polly had referred to an unknown
person who had befriended Sarah by sending her a pound every
week since her husband's accident. Edgar was much interested, and
expressed great astonishment that the generous donor should desire
to remain unknown, for, as he said, most people who gave anything
away liked to be thanked.

They were leaving the clay works—deep pits where scores of men
were at work digging clay or pumping up water—behind them, and
ten minutes more walking brought them to the woods, which were
carpeted with moss and primroses on this beautiful spring day.
Polly's basket was soon filled with the pale, delicately-scented
flowers; and then the three young people sat down to rest at the foot
of a beech tree, and the little girl drew a good-sized package from a
capacious pocket in her skirt, and proceeded to open it with an air of
triumph.

"There, boys!" she exclaimed, as she revealed a large lump of

home-made cake. "You didn't know I'd brought lunch with me, but
aren't you glad? I'd have cut a bigger bit if I'd known Edgar was
going to be with us. Where's your knife, Roger? Divide the cake into
three slices, please."

"I'm jolly hungry," Roger announced, as he produced his pocket-knife

and proceeded to do his sister's bidding. "I'm just ready for a snack."

"And yet you said you wouldn't want lunch when mother advised you
to take some," Polly reminded him. "I knew better than that, for being
out-of-doors always makes one very hungry. Come, Edgar, take your
share!"

Accustomed though he was to far daintier fare, Edgar enjoyed his

slice of cake, which proved most satisfying. It was very comfortable
under the beech tree, the brown, swelling buds of which were
bursting into leaf, and the young people spent a sociable half-hour,
watching the squirrels in the boughs overhead, and talking
confidentially. They discussed their elders, as children are so fond of
doing, and Edgar informed his cousins how surprised his parents
were that Cousin Becky was to make her home with them in
Princess Street.

"Why are they so surprised?" asked Polly, greatly desirous to

ascertain the reason.

"Because Cousin Becky is so poor. Mother said she could

understand it better if she was rich and you could make something
out of her, but what she is going to pay is so little. I think myself that
Cousin Becky is very nice, and I should not mind having her to live
with us at the Rookery. It is a great pity she has not more money.
Father says you can do nothing without money."

This teaching was new to Polly and Roger, who had been taught a
far different creed.

"I suppose you think your father knows everything," the former said,
a trifle irascibly, "but I daresay other people are just as clever as he
is. It must be very, very nice to have money," she proceeded, "but
mother says there are greater blessings than riches, and if we
haven't money to give away we can give what we have—our time, or
kind words, or sympathy, that all counts with God. It's easy to give
money if you've got it. I daresay Uncle John gives away a good bit,
doesn't he?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Edgar answered. "I never heard him say. I
daresay he does, for he has plenty of money, you know."

"Yes, I know," returned Polly, nodding her head sagely, "and so've
you, haven't you? You get a lot of pocket-money, don't you?"

"A shilling a week from father, besides what mother gives me off and
on."

"So much as that? Do you spend it all on yourself? Oh!" she cried as
her cousin nodded. "Fancy that! We get twopence, and Roger had
only a penny a week before he went to school."

"Why don't you ask your father for more?" questioned Edgar
thoughtlessly.

"Because he can't afford to give us more; he would if he could." Polly

rose, and picked up her basket of primroses as she spoke. "I think
it's time we started for home," she said, "for mother told us we were
to be back by one o'clock."

Accordingly the children left the wood and retraced their footsteps
along the high road, Polly carrying her basket very carefully, and
looking admiringly at her flowers every now and then. Edgar gave his
cousins a description of the handsomely illustrated copy of 'The
Pilgrim's Progress' which his mother had procured for him; he
seemed exceedingly pleased with it, and promised to show it to his
companions one day.

They had nearly reached the town when they were overtaken by Mr.
Marsh, who was being driven by a groom in a dog-cart. He had been
to the clay works and was now on his way home.

"Well, young folks," he said good-humouredly as the groom, obeying

his master's order, brought the dog-cart to a standstill, "have you
been for a ramble in the country? All well at home, Polly? Yes. That's
right. You're looking blooming yourself, child, with those bright eyes
and those rosy cheeks. Edgar, you'd better jump up behind and
return with me. Well, Roger, how are you?" he asked. His son
climbed into the back seat of the vehicle as he spoke.

"Very well, thank you, Uncle John," Roger answered, lifting his frank
eyes to meet his uncle's.

"You and your sister should come to the Rookery sometimes during
the holidays," Mr. Marsh said kindly; "but, mind, I'll have no smoking.
Remember that."

"I never do smoke, Uncle John," Roger returned earnestly.

"Tut, tut, that's not true. Hasn't Edgar told you that I found out what
you and he had been doing the last time you were at the Rookery? I
ought to have told your father, perhaps. I am sure he would not like
you to smoke. You hope to grow into a fine, strong man, I suppose?
You'll never be one if you smoke cigarettes at your age. You mark
my words. Good-bye."

The dog-cart passed on, leaving Polly and Roger staring after it, the
former filled with amazement, the latter crimson with indignation.
Edgar waved his hand to them, but they did not respond to his
salutation.
"What did Uncle John mean?" Polly demanded of her brother. "Have
you really been smoking?"

"No, no! How can you think it for a minute!" was the reproachful
response.

"But Uncle John evidently believes you have. He thought, too, that
you told him a story."

"I saw he did." Roger looked utterly miserable. "I can't understand it,"
he said. "I have never smoked, indeed I haven't. You know I
promised father I wouldn't."

"Uncle John spoke of the last time you were at the Rookery. Neither
he nor Aunt Janie were at home then, were they?"

"No; Edgar and I spent the afternoon by ourselves. Oh, don't ask me
any more about it," he proceeded imploringly as he saw another
question trembling on his sister's lips. "Uncle John has made a
mistake, but—" passionately—"he had no right to speak to me as he
did."

"He did not speak unkindly, only as though he thought you had told
him a story. No, you are not a story-teller, I know that well enough."

"Don't tell them at home what he said, Polly; mother and father
would be so put out—promise you won't."

Polly hesitated; but her brother appeared so distressed that she at

length, very reluctantly, gave the desired promise, feeling puzzled
and uneasy. Why, since Roger had been wrongfully accused, did he
not want the matter cleared up? It did not seem right to her that their
uncle should be allowed to believe what was not true; and her heart
was hot with indignation against him for holding such a bad opinion
of her brother. Never for a moment did she doubt Roger's word
herself. Long she puzzled over the matter, but she asked no more
questions, and the remainder of the walk home passed in silence.
"I've enjoyed the morning, haven't you?" Roger said, as they turned
the corner into Princess Street.

"Oh yes," the little girl assented, "and I was doubtful if we should
when we met Edgar and he said he'd go with us; but I think he really
has improved, he was very nice on the whole to-day. I wish," she
added with a faint sigh, "oh, I do wish we had not seen Uncle John!"

CHAPTER X
BROUGHT TO BOOK

Edgar had heard the accusation his father had brought against
Roger, and he had noted the crimson flush which had spread over
the latter's countenance when his word had been disbelieved, and
he was uneasily conscious that there would have to be a day of
reckoning between his cousin and himself sooner or later. He knew
he had been cowardly in allowing his father to think Roger had joined
him in cigarette smoking, and he wished now he had not held his
tongue upon the point.

"I must manage to square Roger, somehow," he thought, "but it won't

be easy. I could see he was awfully angry that father didn't believe
him; he's so very particular about telling the truth."

The two boys did not meet for several days, however; but one
morning Edgar was sent by his mother with a note to Mrs. Trent,
inviting Polly and Roger to spend the following afternoon at the
Rookery. His heart beat fast and unevenly as he stood on the
doorsteps of his relations' house in Princess Street and rang the bell,
for he dreaded giving the explanation he knew Roger would be
certain to demand from him; but, much to his relief of mind, when
Louisa opened the door, she informed him that his young cousins
had gone out with Miss Trent and only his aunt was at home. He was
shown into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Trent came to him; and
whilst she was reading his mother's note, he watched her, thinking
how sweet and pretty she looked, for he always admired and liked
Aunt Mary.

Mrs. Trent promptly accepted the invitation for her children which her
sister-in-law's note contained, and she talked to the little boy for a
short while; but he seemed in a hurry to leave, so she did not detain
him long. The fact was, he was glad to have missed Roger, and
wanted to get away before his cousins' return.

Now, it so happened that Roger, coming out of a shop with his sister
and Cousin Becky, caught sight of Edgar, homeward bound, and
pointed him out to his companions.

"I want to speak to him particularly," he said. "May I run and overtake
him, Cousin Becky?"

"Do, my dear," she answered; "but Polly and I will not wait for you as
we have several more errands to execute."

Accordingly, Roger went after Edgar; but he only kept him in sight
and did not overtake him till he had left the town and turned into the
suburban road which led to the Rookery, then he ran up to him,
shouting: "Hi! Stop! Stop!"

Edgar started violently, for he had had no idea of the proximity of his
cousin; he glanced around with a somewhat alarmed expression on
his face as he said in a hurried tone:

"I've just come from Princess Street. You and Polly are to come to
tea with me to-morrow."
"Who says so?" Roger inquired bluntly.

"Aunt Mary. I took a note to her from mother."

"You'll like to come, won't you?" And Edgar regarded the other more
than a trifle anxiously.

"I don't know. Look here, Edgar! What did your father mean the other
day by saying I smoked, and why didn't you speak up for me? Had
you made out to him that I had been smoking cigarettes with you that
afternoon I was at the Rookery, when he and Aunt Janie were
away?"

"No, on my honour I had not," was the emphatic response.

"Then, what did he mean?" Roger demanded. "He believed I had

been smoking. Did you know he thought so?"

"I—I—"

"Oh, speak out!" cried Roger, greatly irritated; "don't stammer like a
baby!"

"Well, don't get angry, then. You needn't look at me so—so furiously.
I've done nothing to injure you. It was like this. Father found out I'd
been smoking; at first I wouldn't own to it, but afterwards I did, and
he was awfully angry. But it was a Sunday, and mother stood up for
me, so there wasn't nearly such a row as I'd expected." Edgar
paused for a minute, then continued with heightened colour. "Of
course, father imagined, as you had been with me and there were
several cigarettes gone from the case—I'd taken them; I thought he
wouldn't notice—that you'd been smoking, too, and—and—"

"And you didn't tell him I hadn't?"

"No-o-o," Edgar was obliged to admit, "I—I didn't tell him one way or
the other."
"Why didn't you?" Roger was actually shaking with anger, the colour
had fled from his cheeks, and his eyes were alight with passion.

"Because—because father would have been angrier if he'd known

you hadn't smoked too," faltered Edgar. "Oh, Roger, I didn't tell a lie
about it, I only held my tongue."

"And let Uncle John believe that I—that I—"

Roger's voice failed him, so intense was his indignation. He had

been trying to keep his temper under control, but now it gained the
mastery over him, and, flinging himself upon Edgar, almost choking
with rage, he began to belabour him with his clenched fists. Edgar
was no coward physically, whatever he was morally, and he was on
the defensive in a moment. In a few minutes the two boys were
engaged in a fierce fight, and, being equally matched as to height
and weight, there is no saying how it might have terminated had not
the sound of wheels warned the combatants to desist. Panting and
dishevelled, they stood aside to allow the vehicle to pass; but,
instead of doing so, it drew up, and, looking to see the reason, Roger
was shocked to see his aunt's carriage, and his aunt herself in it with
two lady visitors.

"Good gracious, boys!" cried Mrs. Marsh. "What is the meaning of

this? Edgar, what has happened? Why, my darling, you are covered
in dust, your clothes are torn, and —oh, surely you have not been
fighting? Roger, you naughty boy—"

"I am not more naughty than Edgar," interrupted Roger, "not nearly
so naughty if it comes to that, for I'm not a mean beast like he is." He
was far too angry to pick his words.

"How dare you use such language," began Mrs. Marsh, looking
surprised and shocked, for she had always considered her nephew a
well-mannered little boy, but he broke in again:

"We've been fighting," he said passionately, "and I began it, and if

you hadn't come up I'd have licked him. Of course you'll take his
part, Aunt Janie, you always do, but he knows he deserves a good
thrashing. I'll have nothing more to do with him, although he is my
cousin, and I won't go near the Rookery again."

"I suppose you've quarrelled," said Mrs. Marsh, glancing from her
visitors, who appeared highly entertained and evidently regarded the
scene in the light of a joke, to her son's downcast countenance.
"What have you fallen out about? How could you so far forget
yourself, Edgar, as to fight in the road?"

"You mustn't blame him for that, Aunt Janie," said Roger quickly, "for
I made him fight. I hit him first."

"But why?" questioned Mrs. Marsh, looking more and more

mystified. "I don't understand. Oh, I hope neither of you is much hurt!
And, oh dear—" with sudden alarm in her tone—"here comes your
father, Edgar! Oh, John," she proceeded as her husband came up,
"do find out what has happened to make the boys quarrel! They've
been fighting."

"So I perceive," Mr. Marsh replied dryly; "you'd better drive on, my
dear, and I'll see to the youngsters. Now," he said sternly, as the
carriage passed on, "what have you two to say for yourselves? What
is the meaning of all this? I thought you were good friends."

"Friends!" echoed Roger in accents of deep disgust. "He's been no

friend to me, letting you believe I smoked with him when I never
even touched the cigarettes. I said I wouldn't tell he'd been smoking
—it was no business of mine—and I didn't, but I never thought he'd
treat me so shabbily. I've finished with him now," he continued
bitterly, as he brushed down his clothes with his hands and picked
up his cap from the dusty road, "and I'll never—"

"Stop!" commanded Mr. Marsh, "Don't make rash vows, Roger. Do

you mean to assert that you did not smoke with Edgar?"

"I did not," Roger answered firmly. "Ask him before me, and he'll tell
you the truth."
"What have you to say, Edgar?" Mr. Marsh looked anxiously at his
son.

"Roger did not smoke with me, father," was the low-spoken
response. "I never said so."

"But you permitted me to think so. I am ashamed of you, Edgar.

Roger, my boy, I owe you an apology for doubting your word, you
must forgive me that I did not accept it," and Mr. Marsh laid his hand
kindly on his nephew's shoulder as he spoke. "Edgar owes you an
apology, too, for his cowardly and ungenerous treatment of you," he
supplemented.

"Oh, it's all right, Uncle John, so long as you don't believe I told you a
lie," Roger said hurriedly. "I'll settle it with Edgar another day."

"No, no, settle it now, and have done with it. I am quite satisfied you
told me the truth," and Mr. Marsh sighed as he glanced at his son,
who did not dare lift his shamed eyes from the ground, though he
murmured a few words of apology to his cousin.

After that, Mr. Marsh insisted that the two boys should shake hands,
which they did, reluctantly on Roger's part; and then he seized Edgar
by the arm, and marched him home in silence. Arrived at the
Rookery, Mr. Marsh took his son into the study, where Mrs. Marsh
joined them, anxious to learn the cause of the boys' quarrel. In a few
words Mr. Marsh explained everything to her; but when she would
have tried to excuse Edgar's conduct, he would not allow her to do
so. "There is no excuse for him," he said, "and he knows it. He has
behaved in a false, cowardly fashion towards his cousin, and I am
heartily ashamed of him."

"I—I have been very unhappy about it," faltered Edgar; and there
was no doubt that he spoke the truth, for since the morning he had
gone primrose gathering with Polly and Roger his conscience had
continually pricked him. "And—and I don't believe Roger will ever
forgive me; he said he would never come to the Rookery again, and
he's sure to keep his word."
"What explanation shall I give our visitors as to the cause of the
disgraceful scene in the road?" asked Mrs. Marsh with a sigh.

"Tell them the truth—don't beat about the bush," advised her
husband. "Say Edgar was the one in fault."

"It is most unfortunate this has occurred, for I have asked Polly and
Roger to spend the afternoon here to-morrow," she said regretfully.
"Are they coming, Edgar?"

"Aunt Mary promised they should come, mother, but I don't suppose
they will now."

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "I will speak to their father
and tell him what has happened, and he will set things right. Roger
has a real grievance and has cause to be indignant, but I want him
and Edgar to be friends. Your brother is as straight as a line, Janie,
and it seems his son is the same. Now go to your visitors, my dear; I
have a few words to say to Edgar alone."

It astonished Edgar to see how deeply his conduct had affected Mr.
Marsh, who seemed more grieved than angry. That touched the little
boy, who was really much attached to the father who had always
been so indulgent to him, and he promised that he really would
endeavour to act as well as speak truly in the future. When, ten
minutes later, he left the study and ran upstairs to his bedroom to
prepare for luncheon—which, under the circumstances would be
somewhat of an ordeal that day—his eyes were blind with tears, and
his father's parting words rang again and again in his ears:

"Be true, my boy, whatever happens be true, and then I shall be able
to feel confidence in you. Don't ever again give me occasion to be
ashamed of my son."
 CHAPTER XI
IN THE CLOCK CASE

Roger had quite made up his mind that nothing should induce him to
enter the doors of his cousin's home again; and after Mr. Marsh and
Edgar had left him, he hurried back to Princess Street, his heart full
of rage, and took his family into his confidence. Everyone agreed
with him that he had been treated shabbily, and Polly was loud in her
declamations against Edgar. It was Mrs. Trent who tried to soothe
the boy's angry mood, and pointed out to him that the present
occasion was an opportunity for showing a magnanimous spirit.

"You don't mean to say you will make me go to the Rookery to-
morrow, do you, mother?" Roger asked hotly.

"No, dear, certainly not," she answered. "You shall do as you please,
but—"

"Then I shan't go," he broke in, "so that's settled."

"I shan't go, either," declared Polly.

"You interrupted me in the midst of my sentence, Roger," Mrs. Trent

told the little boy in a tone of gentle reproof. "I was going to say that
you shall do as you please, but that by to-morrow I trust you may see
things in a different light. Edgar has treated you badly, that I grant,
but I hope you will forgive him, especially as you say he offered you
an apology, and let him see, by going to the Rookery, that you do not
bear malice in heart."

Roger made no response but when, that evening, his father said his
uncle had sent a message to him to the effect that he should expect
to see him on the following day, he realised that he would have to
overlook his cousin's cowardly conduct and consent to be his guest.
"I daresay Edgar is really sorry, and if so I suppose I ought to forgive
him," he remarked to Polly. "And, though I really don't want to go to
the Rookery, Aunt Janie always gives us a very good tea; so, all
things considered, perhaps we'd better go."

"Very well," agreed his sister, "I daresay you're right. I don't care so
much about the tea, but I should like to see the gardens and the
greenhouses."

"And the horses," supplemented Roger with a brightening face.

So the following afternoon found Polly and Roger the guests of their
cousin at the Rookery. There was unwonted shyness in Edgar's
manner as he met them in the hall and escorted them into the
drawing-room to speak to his mother, and he glanced askance at a
bruise beneath Roger's right eye, which he knew had been caused
by his fist whilst Polly and Roger both felt the awkwardness of the
situation.

Mrs. Marsh greeted her little niece and nephew very cordially, and
introduced them to her friends—two fashionably dressed ladies; she
inquired for all at home, and then told them they might do whatever
they liked to amuse themselves as long as they did not get into
mischief. After that she dismissed them, and Edgar led the way
upstairs to the large room which had been his nursery, where he still
kept all his most treasured belongings, including several mechanical
toys and a big rocking-horse which had always been the envy of his
cousins. Edgar was on his best behaviour and tried to make the time
pass pleasantly for his visitors. He showed them his 'Pilgrim's
Progress' and was gratified by their admiration of its illustrations,
which were indeed very fine.

"It's the best mother could get for money," he informed them with
great satisfaction. "I expect it's a much better book than yours, isn't
it?"
"Oh yes!" Polly admitted readily; "but I like our old book best."

All sense of awkwardness had died away now, and the three children
were on the best of terms with each other. By-and-by Edgar
suggested a game of hide-and-seek.

"We can hide anywhere in the house we like," he said, "and the
nursery shall be 'home.' Which of us shall hide first?"

"Oh, let me!" cried Polly eagerly.

"Very well," the boys agreed, and Roger added, "I don't suppose we
shall be long finding you."

"Don't be too sure of that," she retorted. "How long will you give me
to find a hiding-place?"

"Five minutes," Edgar replied, "and no longer, mind." Accordingly the

little girl left the boys in the schoolroom, and, after shutting the door
behind her, stole softly downstairs. She peeped into the dining-room,
but there seemed no hiding-place there, unless she got behind a
curtain, which of course would be searched immediately. "I wish I
could think of some really good place," she murmured, as she stood
in the centre of the hall hesitating which way to turn. "Perhaps I'd
better go up in the attics, there are several lumber rooms, I know, but
the boys will be certain to search them carefully."

Then suddenly a brilliant idea flashed through her mind, and her face
broke into smiles. She thought she knew one place where she could
conceal herself where the boys would never dream of looking for her,
but she must be quick and not waste time or the five minutes' grace
allowed her would be up before she had safely secreted herself.

At one side of the hall was a baize-covered swing door leading into a
passage, at the end of which Mr. Marsh's study was situated. Polly
pushed open the swing door, and a minute later she stood on the
threshold of the study. There was nobody in the room, and closing
the door she turned her attention to the tall clock, which, as has
already been said, stood against the wall near the writing-table. With
fingers trembling with eagerness, the little girl opened the door of the
oak case of the clock and peeped inside.

"There's heaps of room for me," she reflected triumphantly as she

scrutinised the swinging pendulum and the heavy iron weights of the
old time-piece. "It will be a splendid hiding-place. I am sure I can get
in, and if I do stop the clock I can easily set it going again. The boys
will never think of looking for me here. But I must hurry."

It was not so easy to get into the case of the clock as she had
anticipated it would be, for the door was nearly two feet from the
ground, but she succeeded in effecting the feat; and, once inside,
she found she could stand upright, though she was obliged to keep
in one position owing to the narrowness of the case. She laughed
softly to herself as she stood there, listening, ready to shut the door
of her hiding-place the minute she should hear sounds of anyone
approaching the room. Thus she waited several minutes; but, before
very long, the silence was broken by Edgar's voice in the passage,
saying:

"I don't suppose she's in the study, but we'll have a look. I expect
she's upstairs in the attics somewhere. We must be sharp or she'll
manage to get 'home.'"

Polly smiled to herself and hastily drew the door of the clock case
close. It shut with a "click," and she was in complete darkness. She
heard the boys making a hasty search of the room, then followed the
sound of a door slammed, retreating footsteps, and after that
complete silence. The searchers had never thought of looking inside
the case of the old clock.

"What a famous joke!" thought Polly delightedly. "Now, whilst they're

in the attics I'll slip back to the schoolroom. I shall be on the laughing
side this time."

But she was not so sanguine on that point when, having allowed a
few minutes to elapse, she tried to push open the door of her hiding-
place, for to her dismay it would not move. Then it dawned upon her
that she had made herself a prisoner. Evidently the clock case could
only be opened from the outside.

At first the little girl was more vexed than startled at her situation as
she reflected that her cousin and brother would make merry over it,
and it was not until she had shouted again and again and, knocked
loudly, without bringing anyone to her assistance, that she began to
experience a distinct sense of alarm; but even then she was not very
frightened, for she felt certain her uncle would visit his study on his
return from business, he would doubtless have letters to write, so
she consoled herself with the hope that she would not be a prisoner
very long.

The minutes dragged slowly on, and Polly began to wonder if there
were spiders in the clock, or perhaps earwigs—she had a great
horror of earwigs. She had noticed that the inside of the case was
very dusty, as though it might harbour all sorts of creepy, crawly
things; and suddenly she thought she felt something on her neck,
and uttered a cry of fright. It proved to be only her imagination,
however.

"Oh, this is terrible!" she exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. "I'm

getting so hot, I believe I shall be suffocated. Oh, will nobody come
to let me out! Roger! Roger!" And she beat against the door of the
clock case with her hand; then listened, but not a sound was to be
heard.

"I expect the boys have given up looking for me and are having tea,"
she thought miserably, with a pang of self-pity, and she shed a few
tears, for she was beginning to feel hungry, and thirsty too. She
pushed desperately against her prison, but the old oaken case was
firmly secured to the wall, and she could not move it though she
exerted all her strength; then she tried to change her position, for
she was growing cramped, but there was not room for her to do so.
Supposing, after all, no one came into the room that night and she
had to remain there till morning, how awful that would be; and the
worst of it was, she could not tell how time was passing, shut up
there in the dark. It appeared to poor Polly that she had already been
imprisoned for hours.

Meanwhile, Roger and Edgar were searching the house from attic to
basement; and it was not until tea-time that they ceased their quest.
Mrs. Marsh had driven out with her visitors, so the boys had their tea
alone in the dining-room, for, as Edgar remarked, it was no good
waiting for Polly to turn up, she could have her tea when she chose
to appear.

"I can't think where she can be," Roger said, a trifle uneasily, when,
after tea, he and his cousin strolled out into the garden. "I suppose
nothing can have happened to her?"

"What could happen to her?" questioned Edgar. "It's stupid of her to

keep away like this." Then, as they encountered a gardener, he
asked him if he had seen Polly anywhere about the grounds, only to
receive a decided reply in the negative.

About six o'clock Mrs. Marsh and her friends returned from their
drive, and were greatly astonished to hear of the little girl's
disappearance; and then Mr. Marsh arrived upon the scene and was
informed that his niece was missing.

"The little monkey is hiding to cause a sensation," he said with a

smile. "Why, Roger, you appear alarmed! That's foolish."

"Polly would not stay away at tea-time if she could help it," the little
boy responded gravely. "I know she must be hungry, because we
had dinner early. Suppose she should be shut up somewhere unable
to get out—in, a chest, perhaps, like the bride in 'The Mistletoe
Bough'?"

Everyone laughed at this suggestion; it seemed so very improbable.

"Oh, she'll turn up presently, never fear," said Mr. Marsh consolingly.
"I shouldn't look for her any further. I expect she's laughing in her
sleeve at you all the while." He had been standing, talking, in the
hall, and now he pushed open the baize-covered swing door to go to
his study. "You boys can come and look at my stamps and coins if
you like," he proceeded. "I don't think Roger has ever seen them.
Good gracious! What on earth is that? Why, someone's calling for
help!" And he hurried down the passage, followed by the boys, and
entered the study.

"Oh!" wailed a muffled-sounding, frightened voice, though no one

was to be seen. "Come quickly! Oh, please do come and let me out!"

CHAPTER XII
COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

"Where can the child be?"

Mr. Marsh glanced around the room in bewilderment as he put the

question; then, a smile of intense amusement broke across his
countenance as there came in answer a series of sharp knocks from
the interior of the clock case. The boys burst out laughing and
rushed forward to release the prisoner, who stood revealed, a
moment later, with crimson cheeks, and eyes which shone through a
mist of tears.

"Why didn't you come before?" she demanded, looking reproachfully

at her brother and her cousin. "You should have looked for me till
you found me, you cruel, cruel, boys!"
"Oh, I say, Polly, you needn't round on us like that," remonstrated
Edgar. "We've done nothing. Couldn't you get out?"

"No. Do you think I should have stayed here so long if I could have
helped it? I couldn't open the door from the inside, and—and oh, I
thought I should be suffocated! Help me out, one of you, please; I'm
so stiff I can scarcely move."

Mr. Marsh put the boys aside and lifted the little girl out of the clock
case. He was very kind, brushed the dust from her frock, and said he
hoped she had not been very frightened. Polly looked at him
somewhat shyly—she had never seen much of her uncle—and her
lips quivered. She felt shaky and unnerved; but she was not going to
acknowledge how alarmed she had been, so she made answer
evasively—

"There was nothing to be frightened at really, only—only I thought

there might be spiders and earwigs there, and it seemed such a
long, long time to wait."

"Well, I'm glad we've found you at last," remarked Roger, "for it's
getting late."

"What time is it?" asked Polly. "I'm afraid I stopped the clock," she
said in an apologetic tone to her uncle, "but I don't think it's hurt;
there wasn't room for the pendulum to swing when I was in the
case."

"Oh, I don't suppose it's hurt," he responded. "I will set it going
presently."

He took out his watch and looked at it.

"It's nearly seven," he said.

"Then it's time for us to go home," sighed Polly dolefully, "and—and I

haven't had any tea."
"Dear me, no, of course not!" exclaimed her uncle, as, overcome
with self-pity, the little girl's tears began to flow. "Edgar, call your
mother and tell her Polly's found. How long were you shut up in the
clock case, my dear?" he asked commiseratingly as his son went to
do his bidding.

"I don't know," she answered, "ages and ages!"

"About three hours," said Roger after some moments' reflection as

his uncle looked at him inquiringly.

"So long as that!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "Poor child, poor little girl!
Never mind, Polly, you'll feel better after you've had tea. Cheer up,
my dear."

A few minutes later Mrs. Marsh appeared upon the scene and took
possession of her niece. She was very kind and led her upstairs to
her own room, where Polly bathed the tear stains from her hot
cheeks and brushed her hair, after which she accompanied her aunt
downstairs and made an excellent tea. Then Mr. Marsh entered the
room followed by the boys, and handed her a beautiful bunch of hot-
house flowers to take home with her.

"Oh, thank you, Uncle John!" cried the little girl gratefully. "They are
lovely! Oh, how stupid I was to shut myself up in the clock case like
that, when I might have had such a nice time!"

"Never mind," said Mr. Marsh good-naturedly; "you shall come again,
eh, Janie?" he asked, appealing to his wife.

"Of course," she agreed. "How would you like to spend a day with
me when my visitors are gone, Polly?"

"Alone?" questioned the little girl dubiously. Then, as Mrs. Marsh

smilingly assented, she inquired impulsively, "Should I go for a drive
with you in your carriage, Aunt Janie?"

"Yes, certainly."
"Oh, I should like that! I never drove in a carriage with a pair of
horses in my life. But—" she paused for a moment in hesitation, then
added, "but I think, if you don't mind, I would rather you invited
mother instead."

"Why?" queried Mrs. Marsh, very surprised.

"Because it would be such a treat for mother to have a drive. You

know she is not very strong, and she cannot walk far because she so
soon gets tired."

"But I thought your mother did not care about going out," Mrs. Marsh
observed. "She is always such a home bird. I am sure I have often
advised her to go out more."

"Well, you see, she has a good bit of house work to do, and after that
she's very tired, and that's why she stays at home," Polly explained
in a matter-of-fact tone. "I daresay you would be tired yourself, Aunt
Janie, if you had to do all the things mother does."

"I daresay. And now Cousin Becky has taken up her abode with you
your poor mother must be busier than ever," Mrs. Marsh remarked
with a slight frown, and a note of dissatisfaction in her voice.

"Oh no!" Polly responded quickly. "There you're quite wrong, Aunt
Janie. Cousin Becky helps mother a great deal in the house, she
doesn't make any extra work."

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, Polly, remember it is understood that you
are to come and spend a day with me soon, and I will take you for a
nice long drive in the country."

"Thank you, Aunt Janie," the little girl replied earnestly and gratefully,
her face alight with a pleased smile.

"Polly, we ought to be going," said Roger. "You know mother said we

were not to stay to be in the way about dinner-time, and it's past half-
past seven."
"Dinner is not till eight to-night as we have several expected visitors,"
Mrs. Marsh said as she kissed her little niece and nephew good-bye,
preparatory to going upstairs to dress.

"Fancy not having dinner till nearly supper-time!" cried Polly, opening
her eyes very wide. "I don't think I should like that!"

"Come, Polly," whispered her brother as she seemed disposed to

linger, "Uncle John's going to send us home in the dog-cart, and it's
waiting at the front door."

"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Polly. "How kind of you, Uncle John!"

Roger was no less delighted than his sister at the prospect of the
drive home. He took his place on the back seat of the vehicle, whilst
Polly occupied the seat by the groom in front, her bunch of flowers in
her lap; and the spirited horse between the shafts set off at a
swinging pace. Polly, who had regained her usual spirits by this time,
sat bolt upright, feeling herself a person of some importance to be
thus driven home in state, and amused herself on the way by bowing
gravely and impressively to various pedestrians, many of whom she
only knew very slightly. As they turned the corner of Princess Street,
the little girl caught sight of her mother and Cousin Becky at the
sitting-room window. She waved her hand to them, and smiled and
nodded as the dog-cart drew up.

"Wait a minute, missie," advised the groom as Polly made a

movement to get down, "and I'll help you."

"Oh, you needn't trouble, thank you," she responded hastily, as she
noticed her brother was already on the pavement, "I can manage
quite well by myself."

Forthwith she rose from the seat and turned round to descend
backwards, holding to the dog-cart with one hand, whilst with the
other she grasped her flowers; but her legs proved not quite long
enough to reach the step of the carriage, and the horse suddenly
moving, she lost her balance and was flung into the gutter. She
picked herself up immediately, however, and, declaring herself
unhurt, went hurriedly into the house, still grasping her flowers,
which she was glad to see were but little injured, and very conscious
that her undignified descent from the carriage had been witnessed
by several pairs of eyes from neighbouring windows.

"Oh, Polly dear, are you hurt?" cried Mrs. Trent, meeting her little
daughter at the front door and drawing her into the sitting-room. She
regarded her with some anxiety as she spoke.

"No," Polly answered promptly, "that is, not much. I've knocked my
elbow, but it's nothing. The stupid horse moved."

"You should have let the groom help you down, my dear."

"He wanted to but she wouldn't allow him," Roger said, overhearing
his mother's remark as he came into the room.

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon?" inquired Cousin Becky, after

she and Mrs. Trent had admired the bunch of beautiful flowers.

"Polly had a very pleasant afternoon," Roger replied, laughing, "and

where do you think she spent it? Why, shut up in a clock!" And he
proceeded to tell the tale of his sister's misadventure, which was
heard with considerable amusement.

"It's all very fine to laugh," Polly said, somewhat tearfully, "but it was
a terribly long while to be shut up in the dark with spiders and
earwigs, when I might have been having such a fine time, too! And I
did get so hungry! Uncle John was very kind, and Aunt Janie made
me eat a big tea, afterwards; I think they were really sorry for me,
they didn't laugh at me like the boys."

As the little girl had expected, she was not allowed to forget that
afternoon's adventure, for it was far too good a joke to be easily
dropped; but she was endowed with a sense of humour, and did not
much mind having the laugh turned against herself.
In the course of a few days Roger returned to school and a short
while later, Polly learnt that Mrs. Marsh's visitors had left the
Rookery, whereupon she began to speculate when she would be
invited to spend the day with her aunt which that lady had
mentioned. But the looked-for invitation did not arrive, and Polly was,
at length, reluctantly obliged to conclude that it was not coming at all.

"Aunt Janie could not have really intended to ask me," she thought
bitterly, "she cannot have forgotten what she said. She is very, very
unkind."

She did not mention her disappointment to her mother, but she
spoke of it to Cousin Becky, who listened and sympathised with her.

"Aunt Janie's a nasty, selfish thing!" cried Polly hotly.

"My dear, my dear—" began Cousin Becky expostulatingly, but the

indignant little girl continued in the same vehement tone—

"She is, Cousin Becky. I saw her driving by herself in the town
yesterday, and—and if you had a nice carriage with plenty of room in
it, wouldn't you want to give drives to people who never hardly have
any fun? I know you would, and so would mother, or anyone who
wasn't dreadfully selfish!"

"My dear, your aunt does not think. I am sure she never guesses
how much you have set your heart on driving with her—"

"No, and she doesn't care!" broke in Polly passionately. "Oh, how I
should like to be rich! It's miserable being poor."

"Do you want money so much, Polly?" the old lady questioned. "Tell
me what you would do if you had a lot of money."

"Oh, I'd do heaps of things! I'd give some to father, first of all,
because he lost all his, you know; and then I'd buy some new gowns
for mother—pretty ones, like Aunt Jane's; and Roger should have
more pocket-money—he gets so much less than most of the
Grammar School boys; and we'd all go away by the sea for a holiday
—that would be best of all! Uncle John and Aunt Janie and Edgar go
to the sea-side every year, but we never do; and last year, when
mother was poorly, the doctor said a thorough change would do her
more real good than anything, but she couldn't have it. Father was
so sorry about it; and he wanted to tell Aunt Janie what the doctor
said, but mother wouldn't let him."

"Polly, can you keep a secret?" asked Cousin Becky.

"Oh yes, I am sure I can, though I never tried," was the confident
response.

"Well, then I will tell you one but you must keep it quite to yourself,
mind. Will you promise?"

"Yes; I won't tell anyone—not even mother."

"No, not even your mother." There was a slight flush on Cousin
Becky's cheeks, and a smile hovered around her lips and shone in
her eyes. "A little bird has told me that very likely—most likely,
indeed—there will be a holiday for you all this year."

"What!" Polly could scarcely credit that she had heard aright. "You
don't—you can't mean it!"

"Yes, I do, my dear. That's my secret. Mind you don't let it go any
further. And you mustn't ask me any questions. Well, just one then."

"Are you sure the little bird you spoke of knows?" Polly inquired
incredulously.

"Quite sure."

"I don't see how it's going to be managed—a holiday, I mean. But,
oh, it would be grand! Oh, Cousin Becky, do tell me!"

"No, I can tell you no more," Cousin Becky interposed, laughing.

"Remember to keep my secret, dear."