Mary felt greatly relieved to hear that Sister Agatha would have fetched her away again if Mrs. Coppert had taken her to William Street, but still she seemed tired after her adventure, and as soon as she finished tea she was put to bed. She did not have very agreeable dreams that night, and even the next morning she could think of nothing but Mrs. Coppert.

When Evangeline came to see her during the afternoon, Mary looked up wonderingly into her face and said—

'What I can't make out is how Mrs. Coppert knew where I was! How did she know I was here?'

'If you sit down,' answered Evangeline, 'I will tell you a story.'

'Bring your stool close to me,' said Sister Agatha. And without losing a moment, Mary carried her stool to Sister Agatha's side and sat down. Then Evangeline began the story.

'Once upon a time there lived in London a young woman whom we will call—what shall we call her? Suppose we say her name was Gertrude! She lived in a large house and she had a lot of money, and she was very fond of driving nice horses. One afternoon, being a little late, she drove through the streets more quickly than she ought to have done. It was growing dark, and as she drove along a narrow street she ran over a poor little girl who was making mud-pies in the gutter, and knocked her down and hurt her very much.

'At first Gertrude feared she was dead, for her face was quite white, and her eyes were closed, and she neither spoke nor moved. But presently she moved a little, although she did not open her eyes.

'Now Gertrude felt very sorry, especially because she knew she had been to blame in driving too fast through the street, and she felt anxious to do whatever she could to make Lucy—we will call the little girl Lucy—quite well again. Of course a crowd soon collected to see what was the matter, and some one in the crowd told Gertrude where Lucy lived. But Gertrude thought the child would be more likely to get well if she took her to her own house, so she sent one of her servants to Lucy's friends to explain what had happened, but Lucy, herself, was put into the carriage and driven away with Gertrude.

'When they reached the house Lucy was carried upstairs to a spare room and put to bed, then a doctor was sent for, and when the doctor had gone Gertrude wrote to the best woman she knew. This person used to be a great friend of Gertrude's until she made up her mind to have nothing more to do with such idle, good-for-nothing people. So she went away from her friends and spent her life nursing poor folk who were sick. Well, this person, whose name ought to have been Sister Benevolence, agreed to take care of Lucy until the child grew strong again.

'But Gertrude feared she would never be quite so strong as she used to be, and she felt very, very sorry about it. But, you see, she couldn't undo what was done; she could only make up her mind to be much more careful in the future. She saw Lucy's friends, who were not very nice persons, and they said that Lucy had neither a father nor a mother, nor anybody who really belonged to her, so—so Gertrude gave her friends money, and they said she might keep Lucy at her house for ever.

'You must understand that Gertrude made up her mind that Lucy should not go back to the place she had come from, but that as soon as she grew better, she should be sent to school. But now I am going to tell you both a little secret about Gertrude. She often said she would do things, and yet when the time came she found she could not possibly do them. She intended to be very good, and when she saw people unhappy she always wanted to make them happy. Only she thought a great deal about her own happiness too, and in thinking of herself she forgot the others, and when she remembered them again, sometimes it was too late.

'So when Lucy grew stronger, and the doctor said she would soon be able to walk quite nicely again, perhaps Gertrude did not think about her so much as she had done at first. She was going to be married, you see, and to live in a foreign country, and even if she sent Lucy to boarding school, she did not know who was to look after her during the holidays. But to tell you the truth, Gertrude had so many other things to think of that she forgot all about Lucy's future, and although she would be going away very soon now, nothing had been done to provide for the child.

'Then something happened to remind Gertrude how necessary it was that Lucy should be taken care of after she went away, only she had so little time left that she did not know in the least what to do.

'One day Lucy wandered out of the garden and into the road, where the woman with whom she used to live saw her and wanted to take her back again. Not that the woman was fond of Lucy; she only wanted to take her away so that Gertrude should pay more money to get her back again.'

At this part of the story the door opened and a servant entered to say that Evangeline was particularly wanted somewhere else, and rising from her chair, Evangeline walked to the door.

'Please finish the story!' exclaimed Mary, running after her. 'I do want to know how it ends and what became of Lucy!'

'My dear little girl,' answered Evangeline, 'it is a very difficult story to finish. At all events, I cannot stay to finish it to-day,' and she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Mary felt very deeply interested in the story, because she thought that Lucy seemed rather like herself, and that Gertrude was like Evangeline. Certainly Sister Benevolence was very much like Sister Agatha! Still Mary did not feel very clear about it, because she had no recollection of being knocked down and run over. If anything of that kind had happened to her, surely she would have known all about it! At any rate she felt the strongest interest in Lucy and she wanted to know what became of her, and especially she would have liked to hear that she did not go back to the place she had come from, which might be as bad as William Street.

She did not see Evangeline any more that day, but the next afternoon she came to the room to speak to Sister Agatha.

'Tell me the rest of the story now!' exclaimed Mary, taking hold of her dress; 'I do want so much to hear how it ends.'

'What story is that?' asked Evangeline, and she seemed to have forgotten all about it.

'Why, the story about Lucy and Gertrude and Sister Benevolence,' said Mary, but Evangeline looked at her without answering for a few moments, then she said—

'You must ask Sister Agatha. She can finish it better than I can.'

'Will you, Sister Agatha?' asked Mary, as Evangeline left the room.

'You know,' she answered, 'I never could tell tales out of my head. I can't tell you to-day. You see how busy I am!'

'When will you tell me then?' cried Mary with a disappointed expression.

'After Evangeline has gone away,' said Sister Agatha.

'But when is she going?' asked Mary.

'Why, didn't you know she is to be married the day after to-morrow?' said Sister Agatha.

Mary did not know it was to be quite so soon as that, and it made her rather miserable to think that Evangeline would be going away almost directly. But when Sister Agatha promised to take her to see the wedding she looked more cheerful, for she liked to be taken to see things.

The day after to-morrow soon came, and long before the usual time for breakfast, Sister Agatha drew up the blind to look at the weather. She seemed very pleased to see how fine and sunny the morning was and she put on Mary's lightest dress—the pale-blue one.

'Won't she come to see us before she starts?' asked Mary, when Sister Agatha was ready.

'The idea of such a thing!' was the answer; 'you must wait until she goes to the church.'

It seemed to Mary that she had to wait a long time, but when once she had taken her seat in a pew, there was plenty to look at. The prince stood at one end of the church, and Mary noticed how often he looked at his watch. At the other end by the door were six little girls dressed all alike in primrose colour, and Mary could not help wishing she was one of them! The church became full, and everybody seemed to be very smartly dressed, and nearly all the ladies carried large bunches of flowers.

Presently the organ began to play, and then Evangeline walked along the middle of the church holding an old gentleman's arm. She did not see Mary or anybody else because she kept her eyes on the ground; but she looked beautiful in her white dress, and she also carried a bunch of flowers—the largest bunch Mary had ever seen. Mary would have clapped her hands if Sister Agatha had not prevented her, but Sister Agatha could not prevent her from asking—

'What are you crying for?'

'S—s—sh,' said Sister Agatha.

'Don't you want her to be married?' whispered Mary.

'Yes, of course I do,' was the answer.

'Then why are you crying?' asked Mary.

By this time Evangeline was standing at the prince's side, and a clergyman was speaking, though Mary could not hear what he said. After a long time the organ began to play again very loudly, and suddenly Mary noticed that Evangeline had disappeared.

'Where has she gone to?' she asked.

'She will be back again directly,' answered Sister Agatha, and soon afterwards Mary saw the prince, with Evangeline holding his arm, going towards the door again, while some tiny children threw flowers on the floor for them to walk upon.

Sister Agatha was almost the last to leave the church, and when Mary reached the house again she saw a great many carriages before it. But she was taken upstairs as usual, and after dining alone with Sister Agatha she wanted to know what would happen next.

'We are going to see them start,' was the answer, and they went out of doors a few minutes later. All the carriages had moved away into the park, and only the small brown one with the four cream-coloured ponies stood before the door. But a great crowd of people was there, and the prince and Evangeline, who had changed her white dress for a dark one, came out, and everyone seemed to want to kiss her. Some laughed and some cried, and Mary felt inclined to do both at once.

'Isn't she going to say good-bye to us?' cried Mary, as Evangeline stepped into the carriage and sat down. But Sister Agatha did not seem to hear her. The prince also got into the carriage and took the reins, then the ponies started and everybody began to cry, 'Hip, hip, hurrah!' Mary saw Sister Agatha take something white from under her cloak and throw it after the carriage. It looked like a slipper, only she could not imagine why Sister Agatha should throw a slipper at Evangeline; it hit her too!

'Why did you do that?' asked Mary.

'That,' said Sister Agatha in a curious voice. 'Oh! that is for luck: God bless her.'

When the slipper fell into the carriage striking Evangeline's knees, she looked round to see where it came from, and noticing Sister Agatha she spoke to the prince, who laughed and stopped the ponies. Then Sister Agatha took Mary's hand and ran to the carriage. Evangeline leaned forward to kiss her and then she stooped to kiss Mary as well.

'I'm glad she said good-bye,' whispered Mary as the four cream-coloured ponies started again, but Sister Agatha did not speak until after they were indoors. 'Shan't I ever see her again?' asked Mary, as they entered their own room.

'Never is a long day, you know, Sister Agatha answered; 'but certainly neither of us will see her for many, many years.'

When Mary had taken off her hat she went downstairs to tea, and during the meal she could talk about nothing but Evangeline and the wedding. But when she had finished and the tea-things had been removed, she brought her stool to Sister Agatha's side and looked up a little wistfully into her face; she felt she had nobody but Sister Agatha now.

'Please tell me the end of the story about Lucy,' she said.

'To begin with,' answered Sister Agatha, 'I think Evangeline made a little mistake. I don't fancy the little girl's name was Lucy after all. I think it must have been Mary.'

'Was it Mary Brown?' asked Mary, with her eyes very widely open.

'Yes,' said Sister Agatha.

'I—I wondered whether it was,' said Mary solemnly.

'And,' Sister Agatha continued, 'I rather think that Sister Benevolence should have been called Sister Agatha, although it isn't nearly such a nice name.'

'I thought it was you,' answered Mary.

'Well,' said Sister Agatha, 'Mary was a dear little girl and Sister Agatha grew very fond of her. And when Evangeline was very busy and didn't know quite what to do with her—why Sister Agatha thought it was time to put her thinking-cap on.'

'Is it like the cap you've got on now?' asked Mary, staring up at Sister Agatha's white cap.

'When I think I generally take that off,' said Sister Agatha, 'and after to-morrow I don't think I shall wear it again. Well, I put my thinking cap on, and I began to wonder whether I could manage to keep you with me always.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Mary, and she seemed to be hugging herself as if she felt very pleasant indeed.

'And,' Sister Agatha said, 'after thinking about it a long time, I fancied that perhaps I could keep you with me always.'

'Here!' cried Mary. 'Should we live here?'

'No, we are going away from here to-morrow,' was the answer.

'Where to?' asked Mary.

'Suppose, now, we take a nice little house somewhere near the sea,' said Sister Agatha.

'I should like that!' cried Mary.

'I think I should like it too,' answered Sister Agatha. 'Because I shall always have some one to look after, and I like looking after people. And we shall grow very fond of each other, sometimes we shall play on the sands, or row on the sea, and then I shall teach you to read and write, and when you can read you will begin to see what a wonderful world you live in—and you will find that life is far more wonderful than any fairy-tale.'

'Shall I?' asked Mary, and rising from her stool, she stood leaning against Sister Agatha's knees. 'But, still,' she said presently, 'you'll be there, won't you?'

'Why, of course I shall be there,' said Sister Agatha.

'And you won't go away the same as Evangeline!'

'No,' said Sister Agatha with a smile; 'that is not at all likely.'

'And,' said Mary looking up anxiously into her face, 'you'll never send me away either?'

'No, I shall never send you away either,' answered Sister Agatha, and she placed her arms round Mary Brown and drew the child's head on to her shoulder. It rested there a long time, and Mary felt quite contented and not at all anxious any more.

The next day they were driven to the station with their luggage, and they travelled to a small town by the seaside. At first they lived in lodgings, but presently Sister Agatha took a pretty house of her own; it had a nice garden where Mary likes to sit reading on summer afternoons. She can read easily now, if Sister Agatha tells her the meanings of the long words, and she has grown so tall that Mrs. Coppert would hardly recognise her if she saw her. But I don't think Mrs. Coppert will ever see Mary again.

THE END