The other girls were miserable; but Miss Tredgold had already exercised such a very strong influence over them that they did not dare to disobey her orders. Much as they longed to do so, none of them ventured near poor Pauline. In the course of the afternoon Miss Tredgold called Verena aside.

“I know well, my dear, what you are thinking,” she said. “You believe that I am terribly hard on your sister.”

Verena’s eyes sought the ground.

“Yes, I quite know what you think,” repeated Miss Tredgold. “But, Verena, you are wrong. At least, if I am hard, it is for her good.”

“But can it do any one good to be downright cruel to her?” said Verena.

“I am not cruel, but I have given her a more severe punishment than she has ever received before in her life. We all, the best of us, need discipline. The first time we experience it when it comes from the hand of God we murmur and struggle and rebel. But there comes a time when we neither murmur nor struggle nor rebel. When that time arrives the discipline has done its perfect work, and God removes it. My dear Verena, I am a woman old enough to be your mother. You must trust me, and believe that I am treating Pauline in the manner I am to-day out of the experience of life that God has given me. We are so made, my dear, that we none of us are any good until our wills are broken to the will of our Divine Master.”

“But this is not God’s will, is it?” said Verena. “It is your will.”

“Consider for a moment, my child. It is, I believe, both God’s will and mine. Don’t you want Pauline to be a cultivated woman? Don’t you want her character to be balanced? Don’t you want her to be educated? There is a great deal that is good in her. She has plenty of natural talent. Her character, too, is strong and sturdy. But at present she is like a flower run to weed. In such a case what would the gardener do?”

“I suppose he would prune the flower.”

“If it was a hopeless weed he would cast it out of his garden; but if it really was a flower that had degenerated into a weed, he would take it up and put it to some pain, and plant it again in fresh soil. The poor little plant might say it was badly treated when it was taken from its surroundings and its old life. This is very much the case with Pauline. Now, I do not wish her to associate with Nancy King. I do not wish her to be idle or inattentive. I want her to be energetic, full of purpose, resolved to do her best, and to take advantage of those opportunities which have come to you all, my dear, when I, your mother’s sister, took up my abode at The Dales. Sometime, dear, it is quite possible that, owing to what will be begun in Pauline’s character to-day, people will stop and admire the lovely flower. They will know that the gardener who put it to some pain and trouble was wise and right. Now, my dear girl, you will remember my little lecture. Pauline needs discipline. For that matter, you all need discipline. At first such treatment is hard, but in the end it is salutary.”

“Thank you, Aunt Sophy,” said Verena. “But perhaps,” she added, “you will try and remember, too, that kindness goes a long way. Pauline is perhaps the most affectionate of us all. In some ways she has the deepest feelings. But she can be awfully sulky, and only kindness can move her.”

“I quite understand, my dear; and when the time comes kindness will not be wanting. Now go away and amuse yourself with your sisters.”

Verena went away. She wondered as she did so where Pauline was hiding herself. The others had all settled down to their various amusements and occupations. They were sorry for Pauline, but the pleasant time they were enjoying in the middle of this lovely summer’s day was not to be despised, even if their sister was under punishment. But Verena herself could not rest. She went into the schoolroom. On a tray stood poor Pauline’s neglected dinner. Verena lifted the cover from the plate, and felt as though she must cry.

“Pauline is taking it hardly,” thought the elder girl.

Tea-time came, and Pauline’s tea was also sent to the schoolroom. At preparation hour, when the rest of the girls went into the room, Pauline’s tea remained just where it had been placed an hour before. Verena could scarcely bear herself. There must be something terribly wrong with her sister. They had often been hungry in the old days, but in the case of a hearty, healthy girl, to do without any food from breakfast-time when there was plenty to eat was something to regard with uneasiness.

Presently, however, to her relief, Pauline came in. She looked rough and untidy in appearance. She slipped into the nearest chair in a sulky, ungainly fashion, and taking up a battered spelling-book, she held it upside down.

Verena gave her a quick glance and looked away. Pauline would not meet Verena’s anxious gaze. She kept on looking down. Occasionally her lips moved. There was a red stain on her cheek. Penelope with one of her sharpest glances perceived this.

“It is caused by fruit,” thought the youngest of the schoolroom children. “I wonder who has given Pauline fruit. Did she climb the garden wall or get over the gate into the orchard?”

Nobody else noticed this stain. Miss Tredgold came in presently, but she took no more notice of Pauline than if that young lady did not exist.

The hour of preparation was over. It was now six o’clock. In an hour Pauline was expected to go to bed. Now, Pauline and Verena had bedrooms to themselves. These were attic rooms at the top of the house. They had sloping roofs, and would have been much too hot in summer but for the presence of a big beech tree, which grew to within a few feet of the windows. More than once the girls in their emancipated days, as they now considered them, used to climb down the beech tree from their attic windows, and on a few occasions had even managed to climb up the same way. They loved their rooms, having slept in them during the greater part of their lives.

Pauline, as she now went in the direction of the north walk, thought with a sense of satisfaction of the bedroom she had to herself.

“It will make things easier,” she thought. “They will all be on the lawn doing their needlework, and Aunt Sophia will be reading to them. I will go past them quite quietly to my room, and then——”

These thoughts made Pauline comparatively happy. Once or twice she smiled, and a vindictive, ugly expression visited her small face.

“She little knows,” thought the girl. “Oh, she little knows! She thinks that she is so clever—so terribly clever; but, after all, she has not the least idea of the right way to treat me. No, she has not the least idea. And perhaps by-and-by she will be sorry for what she has done.”

Seven o’clock was heard to strike in the house. Pauline, retracing her steps, went slowly past her sisters and Miss Tredgold. Miss Tredgold slightly raised her voice as the culprit appeared. She read aloud with more determination than ever. Penelope flung down the duster she was hemming and watched Pauline.

“I a’most wish I wor her,” thought the ex-nursery child. “Anything is better than this horrid sewing. How it pricks my fingers! That reminds me; I wonder where Aunt Sophy’s thimble has got to. I did look hard for it. I wish I could find it. I do want that penny so much! It was a beauty thimble, too, and she loves it. I don’t want to give it back to her ’cos she loves it, but I should like my penny.”

Pauline had now nearly disappeared from view.

“Paulie is up to a lark,” thought Penelope, who was the sharpest of all the children, and read motives as though she was reading an open book. “She doesn’t walk as though she was tur’ble unhappy. I wonder what she’s up to. And that red stain on her cheek was fruit; course it was fruit. How did she get it? I wish I knew. I’ll try and find out.”

Pauline had now reached her bedroom. There she hastily put on her best clothes. They were very simple, but, under Miss Tredgold’s regime, fairly nice. She was soon attired in a neat white frock; and an old yellow sash of doubtful cleanliness and a bunch of frowsy red poppies were folded in a piece of tissue paper. Pauline then slipped on her sailor hat. She had a great love for the old sash; and as to the poppies, she thought them far more beautiful than any real flowers that ever grew. She meant to tie the yellow sash round her waist when she reached the shrubbery, and to pin the poppies into her hat. The fact that Miss Tredgold had forbidden her to wear this sash, and had herself removed the poppies from her Sunday hat, gave her now a sense of satisfaction.

“Young ladies don’t wear things of that sort,” Miss Tredgold had said.

“A young lady shall wear things of this sort to-night,” thought Pauline.

Having finished her toilet, she locked her door from the outside and put the key into her pocket; but before she left the room she drew down the dark-green blind. She then slipped downstairs and went out through the back way. She had to go through the yard, but no one saw her except Betty, who, as she afterwards remarked, did observe the flutter of a white dress with the tail of her eye. But Betty at that moment was immersed in a fresh installment of the wonderful adventures of the Duke of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton and his bride, and what did it matter to her if the young ladies chose to run out in their best frocks?

Pauline reached the shrubbery without further adventure. There she put on her extra finery. Her yellow sash was tied in a large bow, and her poppies nodded over her forehead.

It was a very excited dark-eyed girl who presently met Nancy King on the other side of the wicket-gate.

“Here I am,” said Pauline. “I expect I shall never have any luck again all my life; but I want to spite her at any cost, so here I am.”

“Delicious!” said Nancy. “Isn’t it good to spite the old cat? Now then, let’s be off, or we may be caught. But I say, how fine we are!”

“You always admired this bunch of poppies, didn’t you, Nancy? Do you remember? Before you went to that grand school at Brighton you used to envy me my poppies. I found them among mother’s old things, and Verena gave them to me. I love them like anything. Don’t you like them very much, placed so in front of my hat?”

“Didn’t I say, ‘How fine we are’?”

“Yes; but somehow your tone——”

“My dear Paulie, you are getting much too learned for my taste. Now come along. Take my hand. Let us run. Let me tell you, you look charming. The girls will admire you wonderfully. Amy and Becky are keen to make your acquaintance. You can call them by their Christian names; they’re not at all stiff. Surname, Perkins. Nice girls—brought up at my school—father in the pork line; jolly girls—very. And, of course, you met Jack and Tom last year. They’re out fishing at present. They’ll bring in beautiful trout for supper. Why, you poor little thing, you must be starved.”

“Ravenous. You know I had only your fruit to-day.”

“You shall have a downright jolly meal, and afterwards we’ll have fireworks; and then by-and-by you will share my bed. Amy and Becky will be in the same room. They think there’s a ghost at the other side of the passage, so they came along to my chamber. But you won’t mind.”

“I won’t mind anything after my lonely day. You are quite sure that I’ll get back in time in the morning, Nancy?”

“Trust me for that. Haven’t you got the key of your room?”

“Yes; it’s in my pocket. I left the window on the latch, and I can climb up the beech tree quite well. Oh! that reminds me, Nancy; you must let me have that thimble before I return to The Dales.”

“To be sure I will, dear. But you needn’t think of returning yet, for you have not even arrived. Your fun is only beginning. Oh! you have done a splendid, spirited thing running off in this fashion. I only hope she’ll go to your room and tap and tap, and knock and knock, and shout and shout, and get, oh, so frightened! and have the door burst open; and then she’ll see for herself that the bird has flown. Won’t she be in a tantrum and a fright! Horrid old thing! She’ll think that you have run off forever. Serve her right. Oh! I almost wish she would do it—that I do.”

“But I don’t,” said Pauline. “If she did such a thing it would almost kill me. It’s all very well for you to talk in that fashion; you haven’t got to live with her; but I have, and I couldn’t stand her anger and her contempt. I’d be put into Punishment Land for a year. And as one day has very nearly killed me, what would a year of it do? If there is any fear of what you wish for, I’d best go back at once.”

“What! and lose the trout, and the game pie, and the steak and onions, and the fried potatoes, and the apple turnovers, and the plum puffs, to say nothing of the most delicious lollypops you have ever tasted in your life? And afterwards fireworks; for Jack and Tom have bought a lot of Catherine-wheels and rockets to let off in your honor. And then a cosy, warm hug in my bed, with Amy and Becky telling ghost stories in the bed opposite. You don’t mean to tell me you’d rather have your lonely room and starvation than a program of that sort?”

“No, no. Of course I’ll go on with you. I’ve done it now, so I’ll stick to it. Oh, I’m madly hungry! I hope you’ll have supper the moment we get in.”

“Supper will be delayed as short a time as possible. It rather depends upon the boys and when they bring the trout home. But here is a queen cake. I stuffed it into my pocket for you. Eat it as we go along.”

So Pauline ate it and felt better. Her courage returned. She no longer thought of going back. Had she done so, she knew well that she would not sleep. People never slept well if they were hungry.

“No,” she said to herself; “I will go on with it now. I’ll just trust to my good luck, and I’ll enjoy the time with Nancy. For, after all, she’s twice as kind as Aunt Sophia. Why should I make myself miserable on account of a woman who is not my mother?”

The Hollies was a very snug, old-fashioned sort of farm. It had been in the King family for generations, and Mr. Josiah King was a very fine specimen of the British farmer. He was a big man with a red face, bushy whiskers, grizzled hair, and a loud laugh. The expression of his broad, square face was somewhat fierce, and the servants at the farm were afraid to anger him. He was a just enough master, however, and was always served well by his people. To only one person was he completely mild and gentle, and that person, it is needless to say, was his daughter Nancy. Nancy was his only child. Her mother was dead, and from her earliest days she had been able to twist her father round her little finger. He sent her to a smart boarding school, and no money was spared in order to give her pleasure. It was the dream of Farmer King, and Nancy’s dearest ambition also, that she should be turned into a lady. But, alas and alack! Miss Nancy could not overcome the stout yeoman blood in her veins. She was no aristocrat, and nothing could make her one. She was just a hearty, healthy happy-minded English girl; vulgar in voice and loud in speech, but fairly well-intentioned at heart. She was the sort of farmer’s daughter who would marry a farmer, and look after the dairy, and rear stalwart sons and hearty girls in her turn. Nature never intended her for a fine lady; but silly Nancy had learnt a great deal more at school than how to talk a little French very badly and how to recite a poem with false action and sentiment. She had learnt to esteem the world for the world’s own sake, and had become a little ashamed of the farmer and the farmer’s ways; and, finally, when she returned from school she insisted on the best parlor being turned into a sort of drawing-room, on her friends being regaled with late dinners, and on herself being provided with servants, so that she need not touch household work. She was playing, therefore, the game of being a lady, and was failing as she played it. She knew that she was failing, and this knowledge made her feel very cross. She tried hard to stifle it, and clung more than ever to her acquaintanceship with the Dale girls.

In her heart of hearts Nancy knew that she would very much like to milk the cows, and superintend the dairy, and churn the butter. In her heart of hearts she would have adored getting up early in the morning and searching for the warm, pink eggs, and riding barebacked over the farm with her father, consulting him on the tilling of the land and the best way to make the old place profitable; for one day it would be her own, and she would be, for her class in life, a rich girl. Just at present, however, she was passing through a phase, and not a very pleasant one. She thought herself quite good enough to go into any society; and fine dress, loud-voiced friends, and the hollow, empty nothings which she and her acquaintances called conversation seemed the best things possible that could come into life. She was, therefore, not at all in the mood to give up her friendship with the Dale girls.

Now, there never was a girl less likely to please Miss Tredgold than this vulgarly dressed, loud-voiced, and unlady-like girl. Nancy was desired to abstain from visiting at The Dales, and the Dale girls were told that they were not to talk to Nancy. Nancy’s rapture, therefore, when she was able to bring Pauline to The Hollies could scarcely be suppressed.

Amy and Becky Perkins were standing in the old porch when the two girls appeared. Nancy called out to her friends, and they ran to meet her.

“This is Paulie,” said Nancy; “in other words, Pauline Dale—Pauline Dale, the aristocrat. We ought to be proud to know her, girls. Pauline, let me introduce my special friend, Becky Perkins. She’s in pork, but that don’t matter. And my other special friend, Amy Perkins; also in pork, but at your service. Girls, you didn’t happen to notice if supper was being put on the table, did you?”

“I should think we did,” said Becky. “I smelt fish. The boys brought in a lot of trout. I’m as hungry as hungry can be.”

“Let’s run upstairs first,” said Nancy, turning to Pauline. “You’d like to take off your hat and wash your hands, wouldn’t you, my fine friend of aristocratic circles?”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Nancy,” said Pauline, flushing angrily, while the two Perkins girls looked at her with admiration.

“Well, then, I won’t,” said Nancy; “but I’m always one for my joke. I meant no harm. And you know you are aristocratic, Paulie, and nothing will ever take it out of you. And I’m terribly afraid that nothing will take the other thing out of me. I only talk to you like this because I’m so jealous. So now come along and let’s be friends.”

The two girls scampered up the old oak stairs. They ran down an uneven passage, and reached a door of black oak, which was opened with an old-fashioned latch. At the other side of the door they found themselves in a long and very low room, with a black oak floor and black oak walls. The floor of the room was extremely uneven, being up in one part and down in another, and the whole appearance of the room, although fascinating, was decidedly patchy. In an alcove at one end stood a four-post bedstead, with a gaudily colored quilt flung over it; and in the alcove at the other end was another four-post bedstead, also boasting of a colored quilt. There were two washstands in the room, and one dressing-table. The whole place was scrupulously neat and exquisitely clean, for the white dimity curtains rivalled the snow in winter, and the deal washstands and the deal dressing-table were as white as the scrubbing of honest hands could make them. The whole room smelt of a curious mixture of turpentine, soap, and fresh flowers.

“I had the lavender sheets put on the bed for you and me,” said Nancy. “They are of the finest linen. My mother spun them herself, and she put them in lavender years and years ago. I am heartily glad to welcome you, little Paulie. This is the very first time you have ever slept under our humble roof. So kiss me, dear.”

“How snug and sweet it all is!” said Pauline. “I am glad that I came.”

“This is better than lying down hungry in your own little room,” said Nancy.

“Oh, much better!”

Pauline skipped about. Her high spirits had returned; she was charmed with the room in which she was to repose. Through the lattice window the sweetest summer air was entering, and roses peeped all round the frame, and their sweet scent added to the charm of the old-fashioned chamber.

“I hope you won’t mind having supper in the kitchen,” said Nancy. “I know it’s what a Dale is not expected to submit to; but, nevertheless, in Rome we do as the Romans do—don’t we?”

“Oh, yes; but I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Nancy. As if I cared. Whether I am a lady or not, I am never too fine for my company; and it was when Aunt Sophia wanted us to give you up that I really got mad with her.”

“You are a darling and a duck, and I love you like anything,” said Nancy. “Now come downstairs. We are all hungry, and the boys are mad to be at the fireworks.”

“I have never seen fireworks in my life,” said Pauline.

“You poor little innocent! What a lot the world has to show you! Now then, come along.”

Pauline, deprived of her hideous hat, looked pretty and refined in her white dress. She made a contrast to the showy Nancy and the Perkins girls. The boys, Jack and Tom Watson, looked at her with admiration, and Jack put a seat for Pauline between himself and his brother.

The farmer nodded to her, and said in his bluff voice:

“Glad to welcome you under my humble roof, Miss Pauline Dale. ’Eartily welcome you be. Now then, young folks, fall to.”

The meal proceeded to the accompaniment of loud jokes, gay laughter, and hearty talking. The farmer’s voice topped the others. Each remark called forth fresh shouts of laughter; and when a number of dogs rushed in in the middle of supper, the din almost rose to an uproar.

Pauline enjoyed it all very much. She laughed with the others; her cheeks grew rosy. Nancy piled her plate with every available dainty. Soon her hunger left her, and she believed that she was intensely happy.