But for Peter and Becky schoolroom breakfast next morning would have been a very dismal and quiet affair, for the elder cousins had little to say to each other.

Herbert and Brenda cudgelled their brains for topics of conversation to keep things going, and they thought they had never had any one so difficult to talk to in their lives. The Australian cousins seemed downright stupid and uninteresting. Just for one thing Brenda was thankful—they were not outwardly so unpresentable as she had anticipated.

Nesta, still smarting under a sense of disappointment, had made a sullen resolution not to appear to want to know anything at all. In spite of Herbert's assurances she was quite sure she did know a great deal about the house and grounds. Brenda and he should see later that she did.

Eustace held his tongue because he had literally nothing to say that was at all agreeable. They had begun the day by going into their mother's room to say good-morning.

"O children," she had exclaimed when she saw them, "isn't it all lovely?""It is, mummie," began Nesta in such a miserable voice that Eustace knew she was going on with a "but."

There were tears of joy in Mrs. Orban's eyes. To her at least everything was perfect. Eustace was standing close to Nesta, and he gave her a surreptitious pinch that just nipped the complaint right off before the "but" could come out.

"It is ripping, mother," he said. "I never thought it would be half so splendid."

"I knew you would love it," said Mrs. Orban confidently; "and it is so jolly for you having Brenda and Herbert. If only—"

She stopped, and her face had grown suddenly sad. There was always that "if only." The twins knew she was thinking of Aunt Dorothy.

"Look here, Nesta," said Eustace in a low voice when they left the room, "don't you go grumbling to mother and spoiling everything for her, or you will be a selfish little pig."

"But when things are horrid—" began Nesta.

"It won't make them better to worry her," said Eustace shortly.

"But how could you say it is splendid?" Nesta said with a choke.

"Well, isn't it?" said Eustace. "I was thinking about the house and the park. It was not the people mother told us about before we came, but the place."

"Grannie and grandfather are not a bit like what I thought," Nesta remarked in an aggrieved tone.

"They are very beautiful," said Eustace in an awed voice. "They somehow match the house and everything in it, and it seems to make them much too grand for us.""I know Herbert and Brenda think themselves much too grand for us," said Nesta crossly. "Fancy their thinking such silly things about the way we lived, just as if we weren't ladies and gentlemen! Why, last night, when Brenda told me we were to go in to dessert, she said, 'You know people always dress for dinner in England,' in that snubby way of hers; and I laughed right out, and said, 'Goodness, father and mother dress for dinner every night at home.'"

"I think they fancy we are sort of savages," said Eustace. "It makes me feel inclined to be one, and give them a shock."

Dessert the evening before had proved a very dull affair, and the time in the drawing-room afterwards, playing halma with the cousins, was worse. They all four hailed bedtime with thankfulness. Never before had Eustace and Nesta felt so shut in—so pinned down and overawed. Never, thought Herbert and Brenda, had they met such queer, unresponsive children.

At breakfast they found Becky entirely at home with her keeper, who had a grave kind of way of smiling down upon the small person and Peter.

"You had better come and see the house now," said Herbert immediately after breakfast. "I'm going off rabbit-shooting later."

"Not you, Master Peter," said nurse as Peter shot off his chair; "your hands and face are all sticky, and must be washed before you can do anything."

The others did not offer to wait for him, so the crestfallen Peter was left behind, wondering why people wanted so much washing in England.

Herbert and Brenda took the twins through the house as they might have conducted a party of sight-seers. Eustace accepted everything in silence, but Nesta did not. For instance,—

"This is the picture gallery," said Herbert, "and all these people are our ancestors."

"Yes, I know," said Nesta.

"This is the room Queen Elizabeth is supposed to have slept in once—"

"Oh yes, mother told us all about that," broke in Nesta; "and the bishop always sleeps here when he comes to hold confirmations in the neighbourhood."

The party passed on in silence. This sort of thing was damping to the showman.

"You see that group of swords over there," began Herbert, trying again as they reached the hall.

"The middle one was the one Sir Herbert Chase killed the man with at Worcester and just saved the Prince's life, and you are called after him," said Nesta, anticipating the tale.

Herbert mentally voted his cousin a bumptious brat of a girl. Eustace began to wish Nesta would stop showing off so palpably—it seemed small and silly.

They passed an interesting looking door, and Nesta at once said,—

"Oh, we're missing one. That must be the library, because of the double doors and the carved owl over them. Do let's go in."

"Can't," said Herbert, glad to show some superior knowledge at least of the ways of the house if not of its contents. "Grandfather is always there all morning, and no one ever disturbs him.""That portrait over there is our great-great-grandfather," said Brenda in the dining-room.

"No," said Nesta, shaking her head; "one more great. Great-great-great-grandfather, Eustace Chase."

Brenda flushed with annoyance.

"Well, I really think I ought to know," she said, "considering I've lived here all my life.—It is only great-great, isn't it, Herbert?"

Herbert looked worried.

"No, it is three greats," he said grudgingly.

"I knew for certain," said Nesta.

Brenda allowed Herbert to take up the rÔle of conductor awhile. Nesta was getting on her nerves. But presently, in the smaller drawing-room, they all came to a standstill in front of the picture of a beautiful little brown-haired girl.

"That was Aunt Dorothy when she was little," said Brenda very low.

Nesta knew this also, but she said nothing for once.

Herbert led the way out of the house in silence.

Out of doors Nesta displayed just the same irritating certainty of things. The sun-dial she noticed from a distance.

"That has 'Sic transit vita' on it," she said hurriedly, lest she should be forestalled. "Oh, and that tank is the little well place mother fell into when she was Becky's age."

But she received a check later.

"The good old swing and the giant's stride," she said with enthusiasm.

"No—new ones," said Herbert with satisfaction; "the old ones were rotten, and these were put up for us."Nesta put her next venture in the form of a question.

"Is that the summer-house mother and the aunts played dolls in?"

"No," said Brenda, "that fell down. This is mine. Grandfather gave it me one birthday."

Everything had the impress of the Dixon children—everything seemed to be "mine" or "Herbert's." It was a depressing morning for the Australians, though Nesta did flatter herself she must have clearly demonstrated her knowledge of Maze Court and pretty well surprised her cousins. It annoyed her that Eustace had been so dumb, and seemingly unable to say more than "yes" or "no" to things. It showed a lack of spirit about him she would not have expected after his sally about the troughs they fed out of with the coolies, and his assertion only that morning that he felt inclined to become a savage and astonish the Dixons.

"I expect he's afraid of Herbert," she thought; "but I'm not."

Eustace was not either, but he was just a little ashamed of his outburst of the evening before. Looked at by light of day it seemed unnecessary waste of temper. He thought Bob would not have thought much of him for it; it was rather babyish.

Oh, how homesick he felt! What wouldn't he have given to have seen Bob walking down one of those wide paths towards them. Good old Bob! Poor old Bob! What would Brenda and Herbert think if they only knew all that story? It was enough to keep the boy silent to have such thoughts as these starting up in his memory again and again; enough to make him ashamed of any pettiness. But the thought of Bob alone had power to do that; he was so big, so splendid, such a man!

Coming out of the gardens into the park they met nurse and Becky.

"Oh," said nurse, looking flushed and flustered, "isn't Master Peter with you? I can't find him anywhere. I just left him while I went to dress Miss Becky, and never thought to tell him to wait for me."

"Peter isn't used to staying in one room," said Eustace quietly. "I guess he is looking for us."

"But it is very naughty of him," said the English nurse in vexation.

"Peter wouldn't mean to be naughty," said Eustace in the same quiet tone; "but you see we are so used to be all together all day long on the veranda."

"That's all very fine," said nurse, "but it doesn't find him for me. I just hope he won't come to some harm or do some mischief before I get him."

"Could he come to any harm?" asked Nesta anxiously.

"Well, there are ponds he could fall into, and places he could climb and tumble out of. And as to mischief—there are things everywhere he could handle and break," said the woman. "I never saw such an inquisitive little fidget as he is. He is all the time asking questions and wanting to touch everything he sees."

There immediately began a hunt for Peter. Here, there, and everywhere they went in pairs, but nowhere could he be found. They called him, but there was no answer; they asked every one they met, but no one had seen him.

Mrs. Chase was out driving with Mr. and Mrs. Orban; there seemed no one to appeal to.

The search reminded Eustace of the story of the loss of Aunt Dorothy, and he went and looked in the turret and the secret chamber through the cupboard door; but Peter was not there.

Nurse was becoming frantic, for of course she felt responsible for her charge. Eustace and Nesta began to be worried. Herbert was cross because this prevented his rabbit-shooting; he could not very well go away leaving such an anxious household as this. Brenda felt sorry both for him and for the twins, but said nothing.

The search-party met in the hall, just as that other search-party had kept doing so many, many years ago, but there was never any news.

"Can there be a secret chamber somewhere else?" said Nesta.

Brenda shook her head.

"I don't think so," she said.

"I wish father would come home," Eustace thought miserably. "He might think of something."

"We had better ask grandfather what is to be done," said Herbert at last in desperation.

It was a last resource. Nothing but the most serious business was allowed to interrupt Mr. Chase's morning, but this had become sufficiently pressing to warrant the intrusion.

In through the folding-doors trooped the anxious-looking searchers, Herbert first.

"Well, I never!" he exclaimed, for there stood Peter as calm as you please, his hands behind him, staring at his grandfather across the broad writing-table.

"Can you ride bareback?" he was inquiring in his shrill treble. "Bob can; but he said I mustn't try because it is slimy."

"Slimy?" repeated Mr. Chase, with brows bent in perplexity.

"Yes," said Peter, "sliddery, you know. A horse is a very slippery beast for short legs, Bob says."

He went on quite regardless of the intruders, who stood watching in awed silence, because if Mr. Chase did not order Peter out of the room, it was no one's business to do so.

"And who may this Bob be you keep quoting?" asked Mr. Chase—"a bushranger?"

"No, he's our friend," replied Peter. "He is just Bob, you know, who comes to see us. Once Eustace and he were lost in the scrub. And Bob says Eustace is a—"

"Peter!" exclaimed Eustace.

"I wasn't going to say anything bad," said Peter. "I was only going to tell grandfather how you—"

"Grandfather doesn't want to know," said Eustace, looking red and uncomfortable.

Mr. Chase turned his bright blue eyes on Eustace; they were blue eyes, very like Peter's.

"Perhaps grandfather does," he said firmly.—"Go on, Peter."

"I can tell you better," said Eustace hurriedly. "It is only Bob was lost, and I got lost looking for him; and we thought some natives were going to kill us, but the chief wanted a reward, so he fetched father and Mr. Cochrane to take us home."

Mr. Chase listened quietly. It was a tame little story, without much point to it told like that, but he had watched Eustace's sensitive face narrowly, and he asked no further questions.

"I seem to be honoured with much company this morning," he said instead, looking round the group on the threshold. "What are you all doing, if I may ask?"

"Looking for Peter, grandfather," explained Herbert uncomfortably, certain that Mr. Chase was annoyed. "We've been hunting for him for the last hour."

"I've had the pleasure of his society for about that space of time," said Mr. Chase. "I have had to give an account of how many black men and how many Chinkees I employ about the place; whether I wouldn't rather live in Queensland if I had a hundred pounds of my own; and how long I sleep in the winter. I don't know why he wants to know that, I am sure."

"Oh," said Peter quickly, "because Bob says people in England sleep like dormice in the winter, and have to be wakened by big knockers on the door."

"I see," said Mr. Chase gravely, "your friend Bob seems to know more about England than I do—probably because I sleep right through the winter. Now, if you have asked everything you can think of, perhaps you will take your tribe away with you, Peter Perky."

The twins jumped violently at the name, and stared at the speaker in astonishment. No one but Aunt Dorothy had ever called Peter that."I should like to know if you roll up when you sleep, or lie flat," Peter said, not feeling at all anxious to go. "Aunt Dorothy always called me a dormouse at night—"

"You can go, Peter," interrupted Mr. Chase hurriedly; "I am busy."

Herbert took the child by the shoulder and marched him out of the room.

"Peter, how could you?" exclaimed Brenda, when they reached the schoolroom.

"How could I what?" demanded Peter, looking puzzled.

"Why, speak about poor Aunt Dorothy before grandfather," said the girl. "Nobody does; he can't bear it."

"Can't he?" said Peter mildly; "but he asked me a lot of questions about her himself. And I told him how she called me Peter Perky, and all about her saving my life in the wreck."

"What!" interrupted the cousins in a breath; "she did what?"

"Didn't you know?" said Eustace.

"We don't know anything except what that awful cable said," Brenda said in a low, shaky voice.

Between them the twins and Peter told the whole story. Herbert sat at the table, his head buried in his hands. Brenda listened with her back to the speakers, looking away out of the window.

There was a long pause.

"Then," said Herbert huskily at last, "if it hadn't been for Peter, Aunt Dorothy would never have been drowned."

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