In spite of her settled conviction that, weary though she was, she was far too miserable to close an eye that night. Margaret's slumbers were sound. A vigorous banging on a door in the near neighbourhood of her own, a banging which was answered by a sleepy and irritable yell, roused her about six o'clock the next morning. Otherwise she could have slept on for another hour or more. But once awake further sleep was impossible. Not only were her neighbours exceedingly noisy—from snatches of conversation shouted across the passage as they dressed, Margaret gathered that most of the junior members of the house were going down to the sea to bathe—but her own thoughts were of themselves sufficient to keep her awake. She had fallen asleep the night before with the dismal thought in her mind that though her long desired wish to stay in a house full of young people had been most unexpectedly realised, the very first thing she had done was to declare enmity with all of them, and the depressing fact came vividly before her mind the instant she awoke. She found herself wishing most fervently that she had been content to remain Margaret Anstruther, and had never met Eleanor Carson, or conceived the mad idea of changing places with her. However, as it was obviously too late to entertain reflections of that sort now, she made an effort to dismiss that unprofitable wish from her mind, and in order to divert her thoughts the more effectually, resolved, early though it was, to get up.

As soon as the sound of many feet clattering noisily downstairs told her that the coast was clear, she found her way to the bathroom, and having bathed and dressed felt more courage to face the trials of the day that lay before her.

There was no one about as she went downstairs, and she passed out through the open front door and went into the garden.

The Cedars—described by the local house agents as one of the finest residential mansions in Seabourne—stood in about three acres of ground, which, though to Margaret accustomed to the big gardens of the country, seemed a small enough piece of land to belong to such an imposing looking house as The Cedars, was in reality unusually large for a town where property was so valuable and ground rents as enormous as they were in Seabourne. The grounds had been laid out to the utmost advantage. A wide lawn, planted here and there with clumps of flowering shrubs, sloped slightly away from the front of the house, and at the bottom of it lay two sunk tennis courts surrounded by high wire-netting. On the other side of the drive were kitchen and fruit gardens.

Her tour of the grounds finished, Margaret conceived the idea of going on to the downs, the foot of which were scarcely a stone's throw away from the gate, and seeing if she could discover in which direction Windy Gap lay. It was still quite early and she had plenty of time at her disposal before breakfast. It was a stiff climb to the top of the downs and took longer than she had thought, even though she left the white road that went zigzagging to the summit and took a short cut up an exceedingly steep footpath. But the view that she got when she reached the top brought a little cry of amazed wonder to her lips, and she felt amply repaid for her long, toilsome climb. Accustomed as she had been all her life to the flat, tame scenery that surrounded her native village, she had had no idea that anything as lovely as this could exist. Never had she seen anything like it. The wide downs appeared to stretch away for miles and miles in front of her forming undulating hills and valleys. Below, at the foot of the high white cliffs that now rose to a dizzy height sheer above the water, and now dipped almost to its level, lay the sea glittering and sparkling in the sunlight. For the most part the downs were bare and wind-swept, but in the hollows small villages nestled with here and there a square grey tower rising through the trees that surrounded the tiny hamlets. One of these she felt sure must be Windy Gap, because looking eastwards she could see the flat, marshy ground through which the train had taken them the day before, and though of this she could not be certain, for a light mist veiled the distant view, she even thought she could descry the long white road leading upwards to the downs from the plain beneath them.

Somewhere over there, then, Eleanor was at that moment, and whatever else she might be doing she was not roaming at her own sweet will on the hillside as she, Margaret, was at that moment doing. And her intense satisfaction at the thought of her own freedom swept away the few uncomfortable doubts and fears that had been harassing her ever since she awoke that morning. Come what might, she would enjoy herself she thought determinedly.

But as a matter of fact the invigorating, bracing air, the brilliant sunshine pouring down on land and sea, had already acted like a tonic upon Margaret's spirits, her troubles seemed to roll away of their own accord and she felt that it would be impossible not to be happy at The Cedars.

So, much the better for her walk, she presently climbed down the hill again, and turned into the road that led homewards. The windows of the dining-room looked on to the drive, and as she passed them she saw that every one was seated at breakfast, and it was with an inward and very rapid sinking of the heart that she realised that she would have to go in late and face the entire assembled party.

An access of terrible shyness rushed over her at the thought, and to delay the evil moment as much as possible she went up to her room and took off her hat and smoothed her hair. But she could not linger over that operation indefinitely, especially as a housemaid who had already arrived to do her room volunteered the information that the breakfast gong had sounded nearly a quarter of an hour ago. With slow, reluctant feet that halted at every step Margaret went down the wide, shallow stairs. If any one had told her three days ago that she would go thus laggingly to resume acquaintance with a room full of young people she would have found difficulty in believing them. A buzz of talk and laughter struck loudly on her ear as she pushed the door open and went in.

Every member of the family, except Mrs. Danvers who never came down to breakfast, were assembled in the room, and, or so at least it seemed to Margaret as she hung for a moment unperceived in a hesitating manner on the threshold, they were all talking together.

In addition, Maud, who presumably occupied her mother's place at the head of the table, but who had vacated it for the time being, was balancing herself on the fender reading out scraps of news from a letter she held in her hand.

One of the two cadets had evidently only just made his appearance at breakfast, for he was standing at the sideboard, complaining, as he lifted the covers and inspected the contents of the hot dishes, that not a single thing worth eating had been left for him.

"You shouldn't be such a lazy person then," called a girl who was seated near Geoffrey. "Of course, the early birds get all the worms."

"I am sorry, Miss Joan, that you liken our good food to worms," said the boy, as, having passed the contents of all the dishes in review, he slid a couple of poached eggs and a few rashers of bacon on to his plate, and took his seat beside the girl who had called out the remark.

"I was speaking comparatively," she said in a condescending tone, as she tilted her nose in the air. "I have heard before that one should not speak comparatively to boys of your age, and now I know."

At that there arose a delighted shout of laughter, and Maud called across from the fireplace that little girls should not use words they could not understand. "You meant figuratively, my dear Joan," she said.

Joan, who looked about sixteen, tossed the long, fair pigtail in which she wore her hair over her shoulder and began readily enough to join in the laughter to which her mistake had just given rise. But all of a sudden her countenance changed, and appearing to fly into a violent passion she started up from her chair, and stamped her foot and cried out:—

"I won't be laughed at, I won't, I won't! I hate you all!"

And burying her face in her handkerchief, she raced across the room, and dashed full tilt into Margaret who was still hesitating unperceived in the doorway.

At that a sound like a little gasp went up from the others, and though the gasp was in some cases followed by a little giggle, to their credit be it said most of the young faces wore a look of concern that Margaret should have made her appearance just in time to hear her outburst of the night before mimicked for the general amusement. Would she get angry again, or would she burst out crying? From what they had seen of her the night before, she was quite as likely to do one as the other. But to the general surprise she did neither, and for the simple reason that she had failed to grasp the fact that Joan's grief was all a sham, and that it was she herself who was being made game of. Joan, after one swift glimpse to see against whom it was she had so violently cannoned, turned away, and dropping her face in her handkerchief, again appeared to cry violently. Margaret felt quite sorry for her, and forgetting all her shyness tried to comfort her.

"I know how unpleasant it is to be laughed at," she whispered in her ear; "but if you pretend not to mind and laugh back you will not mind it so much."

But Margaret's sympathy, far from making Joan ashamed of herself, amused her immensely, and keeping her face turned away from Margaret, she looked up out of her handkerchief and winked at the others and giggled. But when she found that no one else was laughing, her own giggles died away, and she began to sidle uncomfortably towards her chair.

Though none of the others had heard what Margaret had whispered to her, they had guessed, from the sympathetic expression of her face, that she had taken Joan's pretence of rage for a real outburst, and was comforting her; and that in spite of that, Joan should still wish to make game of her seemed to them horribly unfair. Geoffrey was the first to show his disapproval of Joan's conduct. A joke was a joke, he thought, but his young cousin must be taught that she could not make game of a fellow guest—not without their sanction, at any rate. So getting up and coming round the table, he shook hands with Margaret, wished her good morning, and found a place for her next him.

"Come back to the table and do your duty, Maud," he said, as his sister showed no signs of moving from the fireplace; "or if you want to go off, let Hilary take your place. There are several of us wanting more tea. Will you have tea or coffee, Miss Carson?"

"I'll pour out for you, Maud," Hilary said, starting up.

"No, you won't, my dear," Maud said, coming back to her place. "I haven't half finished my brekker. But I thought you had had breakfast ages ago, Miss Carson, with the kids in the nursery."

"Oh, ought I to have had my breakfast there?" Margaret said uncomfortably, letting the fork she had just taken up fall with a clatter on to her plate.

Maud shrugged her shoulders. "There is no ought about it," she said carelessly. "But the kids do have their breakfast in the nursery, and I believe the idea was that you should have yours there with them."

"Well, any way, Miss Carson," put in Geoffrey pleasantly, "you show your good taste in preferring our society to theirs. Our manners may leave a good deal to be desired"—though he did not glance at Joan, that young person knew well that her recent behaviour was in his mind, and got very red—"but theirs are worse. Their sense of humour is distinctly inferior, and they think it awfully funny to put salt in your tea, and to mix mustard with your pudding when you aren't looking, and things of that sort, you know."

No one knew better than her brother that Maud's remark had not been intended to convey a hint that Miss Carson's place as governess was with her young charges. The disagreeable habit of implying things was not one of Maud's faults. Innuendos were beneath her—what she wanted to say she said outright. But sometimes, as in this case, her brother wished she was not so utterly indifferent to the effect her bluntness produced. It was because he had seen Margaret wince under it that he had exerted himself to remove any unpleasant impression that her words might have left on the holiday governess's mind.

"I—I do like your company best, of course," Margaret said. Then, with a heightening colour, and in a stammering, choked voice which showed what an effort it was to overcome her shyness and speak so that every one could hear, she said, "I beg your pardon for saying last night that I hated you all. Of course, it was not true."

"That is a great weight off our minds," said Maud in a tone of raillery. "Now we can breathe again. We were so afraid that you hadn't—well—exactly taken to us last night."

The light-hearted way in which she spoke quite robbed the words of any sting they might otherwise have conveyed, and Margaret was able to join in the laughter which this very mild way of describing the feeling she had shown the previous night evoked.

She was finding out that very little made the Danvers laugh, and when she came to think it over, she arrived at the right conclusion that she found this surprising, not because they laughed more than other young people, but because she had been used to the society of people who laughed so very much less. But anything seemed to serve with them as a cause for laughter. If the joke were a good one it evoked hearty laughter, if it were a bad one the perpetrator was laughed at; and if fresh jokes, good or bad, ran short, there was seemingly an endless store of old ones to be drawn upon, supplemented by catchwords and phrases from the latest musical comedy. These, of course, were even more unintelligible to Margaret than the rest of the queer, scrappy talk that made up the bulk of their conversation; but as she made no attempt to share in it, the fact that even their most everyday slang expressions were strange to her, passed unnoticed. For the most part, however, they were too much occupied with their own affairs to have much attention to spare for her; and it dawned upon Margaret, before even that first meal in their society was ended, that she need not have been afraid that they would bear malice against her for her outburst of the night before. They were really scarcely interested enough in her to do that. Under cover of the brisk chatter that went on round her, she took the opportunity of glancing round the table and studying the various members of the household.

With the exception of herself they numbered eight, and though there had been considerably more young people than that present in the billiard-room last night, she gathered from the conversation that was going on round her that, during the holidays at least, Mrs. Danvers kept a sort of open house for all the friends of her own children.

Opposite Margaret, on Geoffrey's other hand, sat Joan Green. Though she was only fifteen, she looked at least a year older, in spite of the fact that she wore her hair in a long, thick plait down her back. Margaret, who was still under the impression that Joan had been flying from the room in a rage as she came in, and that she had been the means of soothing her back to a better temper, was a little hurt and puzzled at the studious way in which Joan's eyes avoided hers. Once when she had caught their glance for a moment, and had smiled a friendly recognition into them, she had been rewarded by a cold glare that had quite startled her. Next to Joan sat Hilary, and the two girls had seemingly a great deal to say to each other, for though now and again they joined in the general conversation, for the most part they talked together in undertones audible to themselves alone. Hilary's face was a pale likeness of Maud's. Her eyes were not so blue, nor was her complexion so tanned as her sister's, and though her features resembled Maud's sufficiently closely to cause them to be easily recognised as sisters, Hilary's face lacked the look of sparkling vivacity which made Maud's face so attractive. On the other side of Hilary and next to Maud sat Jack, with his brother Noel, the other naval cadet, facing him. Then came Nancy, the girl who had offered Margaret chocolates and advice the previous evening, and when she caught Margaret's eyes now she smiled and nodded as much as to say she quite understood the latter's desire to find out what they were all like.

Nancy was not the only person who had noted the way in which Margaret's eyes had been travelling round the table, for when the turn of the boy next to her came to be inspected, she was startled to hear Geoffrey on the other side of her say:—

"Don't waste time on him, Miss Carson. He's not worth it, I assure you; that's only Edward—Silly Ned as we call him. You must call him that too; he never answers to any other name."

"Oh!" said Margaret, glancing with some apprehension at the small boy on her left as though she feared that he might think she was really going to call him anything of the sort.

Though he, too, was unmistakably a Danvers, he was more like Hilary than any of the others. He was a small, thin, delicate-looking boy, and he wore spectacles.

"Yes, we call him Silly Ned because he has all the brains of the family. He looks a mere child, doesn't he? But he's a sixth form boy at his college, and he got a Mathematical Exhibition last term. He's also a brilliant member of the cricket eleven. We try to take him down a peg or two in the holidays, but it isn't much good. His prizes and his cricket combined have made him too big for his boots. A nice little boy ruined, that's what he is."

"Oh, shut up, Geoffrey," Edward said; "sarcasm isn't really your line, you know."

"Meaning that it is his, or one of his," commented Geoffrey; "you see for yourself what a bumptious babe it is, Miss Carson. Well, and now that you have taken silent stock of us all, won't you tell us what you think of us? But answer me one thing to start with. Which, in your opinion, makes the most noise at breakfast, a girl's school, or the Danvers family?"

"Oh, I do not know, because I have never——" began Margaret, and then stopped in great confusion, realising that she had been about to say that she had never seen a girl's school at breakfast, and conscious that Joan, who had overheard Geoffrey's question and her answer, was staring across at her in obvious astonishment.

"Why, I thought you had come fresh from a school, Miss Carson," she said.

Before Margaret had time to answer a shout of laughter from Maud and the two boys on either side of her drowned all chance of any one making their voice heard at the other end of the table, and by the time comparative quiet was restored Margaret had collected her wits, and had remembered the part she was playing. She did not even look disconcerted when Geoffrey, whose attention had been momentarily diverted from her by the noise at the other end of the table, said thoughtfully:—

"You know, if the remark isn't rather a personal one—which it is by the way—you aren't my idea of a governess a bit."

For it was so evident that he entertained no suspicion at all of the real facts of the case that she saw there was no occasion for alarm. She even smiled as she asked him in her prim, old-fashioned way in what respect she then differed from the picture of a governess he had in his mind's eye.

"Well, it isn't exactly that you look too young, for I know governesses at girl's schools are young nowadays, and that they play games, and all that. But you don't look to me quite self-confident or self-opinionated enough. Eh! What do you think, Joan? Is Miss Carson your idea of a school governess either?"

"No," said Joan promptly; and then Margaret, who could not know that Joan had answered in the negative with the idea of giving the reply that she fancied Margaret would like least, did change countenance a little. For Joan's "No" was so very decisive. And it did not make her feel any the more comfortable to know that Joan's eyes were fixed unblinkingly, and pitilessly, on her blushes. For a moment Joan stared and Margaret blushed, the latter miserably conscious meanwhile that if she wanted to draw down suspicion upon herself she had only to continue to sit there and look the picture of guilt, and the thing was done.

"Not a bit," Joan added with much emphasis, and in the amiable hope of seeing Margaret look still more out of countenance.

But then Margaret pulled herself together. There had suddenly flashed into her mind the recollection of the words Eleanor had used when she, Margaret, had found it hard to believe that Eleanor had been a pupil teacher and a governess for the last six years. And her excellent memory coming to her aid, she quoted them now, exactly reproducing even the light, bantering tone Eleanor had used.

"You write to Miss McDonald," she said, "and ask her what sort of a governess Miss Carson was. I think she would bristle with indignation if she were to hear any one doubt that she would have a governess in her school who was incapable of keeping order. So please throw no cold doubts on my abilities. The profession of a governess is the only one I am fitted to follow, and if I was no good at that I should be hard put to it to earn a living."

"Upon my word," murmured Maud to one of the boys, "the silent Miss Carson is making quite a speech down at the other end of the table."

"I promise never to doubt your capabilities again," said Geoffrey with mock solemnity. "We are satisfied that Miss Carson really is a governess, aren't we, Joan?" he added, turning to his cousin.

"Oh, quite," said Joan slowly. Though she had not yet put the thought into words Joan thought dimly that it was rather curious of Miss Carson to insist so strongly on the fact that she had been a governess. Of course, they all knew that beforehand, so why make such a point of it.

Hilary and Joan were the first to get up from table, and with linked arms they sauntered out on to the terrace, their heads close together.

Margaret felt certain from a backward glance they threw in her direction as they went out that they were whispering about her, and the knowledge made her vaguely uncomfortable.

"Well, I suppose you two are off sailing again," said Maud to the two cadets. "I should have thought you would have had enough of the sea in term-time, and be glad enough to stay on shore when you got a chance."

"And that from a girl who thinks she knows everything," said one of the boys in disgusted accents. "Did she think, then, that Osborne is a sailing ship, or what?"

"Oh, well, you know what I mean," said Maud equably.

"I'll stay on shore, as you call it, like a shot, Maud," said Jack, "if you'll give us a game of tennis. Come on now, you and I against Noel and Nancy."

"Not taking any, thanks," was Maud's retort. "Get Hilary instead of me, and the set would be all right."

"Oh, Hilary plays a rotten game!" said Jack, with true brotherly frankness. "She can't play for nuts, and she talks all the time, and won't run, and loses her temper."

"Hilary would be pleased if she heard you," remarked Maud lazily, as she rose and strolled across to the fireplace.

"Oh, I hear, and I don't care two straws," called her sister from the terrace. But her face, which was as black as thunder, looked as if she did care nevertheless.

"Catch me wasting a whole day playing tennis," said Geoffrey. "I'm as keen on a game as any one in the afternoon, but I am not going to be glued to one little patch of grass all day."

"Of course not," put in Edward; "your favourite form of amusement we all know nowadays, is to lie flat on your back on a dusty road tinkering at your old motor-bike."

"And yours, apparently, to try and be funny at the expense of your elders and betters," retorted Geoffrey. "Say much more, young man, and I'll take you out in the trailer."

"Oh, but I wish you would, Geoffrey."

"Not much. The mater says she can't spare any of us yet, and certainly not the "Hope of His Side." So trot away to your Latin essays, my son, and don't waste time in idling like the rest of us."

"As a matter of fact, I'm going down to the cricket-ground with Tommy to practice at the nets a bit with the professional," said Edward, nettled at the imputation that he was going to spend the morning indoors. He was not vain of his brains, but he was of his cricket, and though wild horses would not have dragged from him the confession that he read Greek for pleasure long after he ought to have been asleep, he would brag of his batting averages to any one who would listen.

At that moment a maid entered the room and approached Margaret.

"If you please, Miss," she said, "the mistress says, will you wait for her in the morning-room. She will be down in a moment, and wishes to speak to you before you go out."

Margaret jumped up at once, glad of an excuse to leave the room, for though she had finished her breakfast long before any of the others, she had been too shy to rise and go away. Besides, she had not the least idea where she ought to go, or what she ought to do.

"No need for you to hurry, Miss Carson," Maud called after her. "Mother's minutes generally mean hours."

And in that Maud proved to have been right, for an hour and a quarter passed before Mrs. Danvers made her belated appearance in the morning-room. But as there was a goodly supply of magazines and illustrated papers, Margaret did not find the time hang heavily on her hands.

Truth to say, she was glad to be alone, and the knowledge that such was the case depressed her very much. She had looked forward to the society of other young people as the greatest happiness earth could give her, and it was discouraging to find that the realisation of her wish was as yet bringing her very little pleasure. She felt awkward and terribly shy in their company, and she had an uneasy consciousness that they looked upon her as a poor sort of creature, and very uninteresting—what, in short, she said sadly to herself, for she was already picking up some of their expressions—they would have called a bore.

When at last Mrs. Danvers did make her appearance she was full of apologies for having kept Margaret waiting so long.

"You must blame the cook, my dear," she said cheerily, "not me. Oh, dear, I am glad to sit down!"

She sank into a low easy chair with an air of fatigue, and Margaret seeing her look round for a footstool, brought her one and placed it under her feet.

"Thank you, my dear," she said, "and now if you will get me my knitting from that table in the corner we will have a nice, cosy chat. Thank goodness my work for the day is all done!" Ten minutes spent in the kitchen assenting to all that a very excellent cook-housekeeper suggested constituted Mrs. Danvers "work for the day." "There are many things I wanted to ask you about my old friend and cousin, Miss McDonald. By the way, what do you think of the children?"

When Margaret answered that she had not yet seen them, Mrs. Danvers, after a short pause of astonishment, gave a vexed laugh. At least, to start with, the laugh was tinged with vexation; but as she continued to laugh the feeling of annoyance was merged into one of hearty amusement.

"That's Hannah all over," she said. "Hannah is jealous of you. She is their nurse, you know, and has been with them since they have been born. She's the only person who can manage them. I can't, and their mother can't, though Joanna would be very angry if she heard I had said that. But I told Hannah to bring the children down to see you here after breakfast. However, as she did not choose to do so, it is no good annoying her by saying anything about it. I will take you up to the nurseries presently, when we have had that nice little chat about my dear cousin. But Joanna," she said, reverting to her daughter and her children, "is always going in for new systems with them. At one time her theory was that they must not be spoiled by having any notice taken of them. During that period they lived entirely in the nursery. I remember I was staying there at the time, and I thought I had never enjoyed a visit to my daughter so much. Next time I went the children were being brought up in the fashion of their great-grandmothers. They were taught to say 'Ma'am' to their mother, and 'Sir' to their father, and were not allowed to sit down in their presence, and never, never to speak unless they were spoken to. I enjoyed that visit too. But the latest and the reigning idea is that they are not to be thwarted or crossed in any way, and as for being punished such barbarity is not to be thought of. If detected in naughtiness they are to be reasoned with only, and if the naughtiness is persisted in it is to be taken for granted that the small sinners are ill, and must be gently nursed into good health and goodness again."

As she listened to this Margaret came to the conclusion that their mother must be an extraordinarily silly woman, but when Mrs. Danvers went on to add that Joanna, after expounding her new theory in detail, had gone away to Norway to fish with her husband, and left her mother to find out how it worked, Margaret smiled outright.

Mrs. Danvers laughed too. "It is rather funny," she said in her good-natured way, "and the worst of it is that Joanna made me promise to give her system a fair trial, and as I never broke my word to any of my children yet, I am giving it a fair trial. And that is why, my dear, I am so glad of your help. When Miss McDonald wrote to me and asked me if I could find a holiday engagement for one of her governesses, I jumped at the chance of having you. For, I said to myself that a governess of Gertrude McDonald's would, of course, have discipline and all that sort of thing at her fingers ends."

"Of course," said poor Margaret rather feebly, as Mrs. Danvers paused not so much for a reply as to gain breath.

"Unyielding firmness without harshness on your side, implicit obedience without fear on theirs is what Joanna aims at I believe," said Mrs. Danvers cheerfully, "and it certainly sounds a delightful method. By the way, if you get on with the children, Joanna has an idea of asking you to stay with her permanently. She is going out to California next spring, and will have to look out for a governess to go with her, as, of course, she is taking the children. Would you like to go, or do you prefer school-work?"

"I—I don't know," stammered Margaret, who totally unprepared for such a proposition, did not know what answer to make. "I should have to ask El——(my friend, I mean) what she thought of it. Ask her advice, I mean."

"Quite so, quite so," Mrs. Danvers said. "But that's all in the future, of course. The first thing you have to do is to make the acquaintance of the children, and, as I said, Hannah has evidently carefully kept them up in the nursery this morning. She is devoted to them, and can't bear the idea of having to share her charge of them with a governess. So I am afraid you may have a little unpleasantness to put up with at first. But she is a good creature, and if you exercise a little tact you will soon be able to smooth her down."

"Yes," said Margaret even more feebly than before. But Mrs. Danvers was not an observant woman, and she was so far from suspecting the hidden dismay with which her new holiday governess listened to her, that later in the day she gave it as her opinion that underneath her exceedingly quiet manner Miss Carson concealed an iron will, and that the reign of stern discipline she was about to inaugurate would have an excellent effect on her grandchildren. And she was genuinely astonished at the derision with which her own children received this prophecy.