In spite of all that was on my mind I slept soundly, waking the next morning a little after my usual hour. Very quickly, so much was it impressed on my brain, I suppose, I recollected the determination with which I had gone to bed the night before.

I hurried to the window and drew up the blind, for I had made one condition with myself—I would not attempt to carry out my plan if the fog was still there! But it had gone. Whether I was glad or sorry I really can't say. I dressed quickly, thinking or planning all the time. When I got downstairs to the dining-room it was empty, but on the table were the traces of some one having breakfasted there.

Just then the footman came in—

'I was to tell you, miss,' he said, 'that Mrs. Wingfield won't be down to breakfast; it's to be taken upstairs to her.'

'And Mr. Vandeleur has had his, I suppose?' I said.

'Yes, miss,' he replied, clearing the table of some of the plates and dishes.

I went on with my breakfast, eating as much as I could, for being what is called an 'old-fashioned' child, I thought to myself it might be some time before I got a regular meal again. Then I went upstairs, where, thanks to Belinda's turn-out of the day before, my room was already in order and the fire lighted. I locked the door and set to work.

About an hour later, having listened till everything seemed quiet about the house, I made my way cautiously and carefully downstairs, carrying my own travelling-bag stuffed as full as it would hold and a brown paper parcel. When I got to the first bedroom floor, where grandmamma's room was, a sudden strange feeling came over me. I felt as if I must see her, even if she didn't see me. Her door was ajar.

'Very likely,' I thought, 'she will be writing in there.'

For, lately, I knew she had been there almost entirely, when not actually in Cousin Agnes's room, so as to be near her.

'I will peep in,' I said to myself.

I put down what I was carrying and crept round the door noiselessly. At first I thought there was no one in the room, then to my surprise I saw that the position of the bed had been changed. It now stood with its back to the window, but the light of a brightly burning fire fell clearly upon it. There was some one in bed! Could it be grandmamma? If so, she must be really ill, it was so unlike her ever to stay in bed. I stepped forward a little—no, the pale face with the pretty bright hair showing against the pillows was not grandmamma, it was some one much younger, and with a sort of awe I said to myself it must be Cousin Agnes.

So it was, she had been moved into grandmamma's room a day or two before for a little change.

It could not have been the sound I made, for I really made none, that roused her; it must just have been the feeling that some one had entered the room. For all at once she opened her eyes, such very sweet blue eyes they were, and looked at me, at first in a half-startled way, but then with a little smile.

'I thought I was dreaming,' she whispered. 'I have had such a nice sleep. Is that you, little Helena? I'm so glad to see you; I wanted you to come before, often.'

I stood there trembling.

What would grandmamma or Mr. Vandeleur think if they came in and found me there? But yet Cousin Agnes was so very sweet, her voice so gentle and almost loving, that I felt I could not run out of the room without answering her.

'Thank you,' I said, 'I do hope you are better.'

'I am going to be better very soon, I feel almost sure,' she said, but her voice was already growing weaker. 'Are you going out, dear?' she went on. 'Good-bye, I hope you will have a nice walk. Come again to see me soon.'

'Thank you,' I whispered again, something in her voice almost making the tears come into my eyes, and I crept off as quietly as possible, with a curious feeling that if I delayed I should not go at all.

By this time you will have guessed what my plan was. I think I will not go into all the particulars of how I made my way to Paddington in a hansom, which I picked up just outside the square, and how I managed to take my ticket, a third class one this time, for though I had brought all my money—a few shillings of my own and a sovereign which Cousin Cosmo had sent me for a Christmas box—I saw that care would be needed to make it take me to my journey's end. Nor, how at last, late in the afternoon, I found myself on the platform at Middlemoor Station.

I was very tired, now that the first excitement had gone off.

'How glad I shall be to get to Windy Gap,' I thought, 'and to be with Kezia.'

I opened my purse and looked at my money. There were three shillings and some coppers, not enough for a fly, which I knew cost five shillings.

'I can't walk all the way,' I said to myself. 'It's getting so late too,' for I had had to wait more than an hour at Paddington for a train.

Then a bright idea struck me. There was an omnibus that went rather more than half-way, if only I could get it I should be able to manage. I went out of the station and there, to my delight, it stood; by good luck I had come by a train which it always met. There were two other passengers in it already, but of course there was plenty of room for me and my bag and my parcel, so I settled myself in a corner, not sorry to see that my companions were perfect strangers to me. It was now about seven in the evening, the sky was fast darkening. Off we jogged, going at a pretty good pace at first, but soon falling back to a very slow one as the road began to mount. I fancy I dozed a little, for the next thing I remember was the stopping of the omnibus at the little roadside inn, which was the end of its journey.

I got out and paid my fare, and then set off on what was really the worst part of the whole, for I was now very tired and my luggage, small as it was, seemed to weigh like lead. I might have looked out for a boy to carry it for me, but that idea didn't enter my head, and I was very anxious not to be noticed by any one who might have known me.

I seemed to have no feeling now except the longing to be 'at home' and with Kezia. I almost forgot why I had come and all about my unhappiness in London; but, oh dear! how that mile stretched itself out! It was all uphill too; every now and then I was forced to stop for a minute and to put down my packages on the ground so as to rest my aching arms, so my progress was very slow. It was quite dark when at last I found myself stumbling up the bit of steep path which lay between the end of the road where Sharley's pony-cart used to wait and our own little garden-gate. If I hadn't known my way so well I could scarcely have found it, but at last my goal was reached. I stood at the door for a moment or two without knocking, to recover my breath, and indeed my wits, a little. It all seemed so strange, I felt as if I were dreaming. But soon the fresh sweet air, which was almost like native air to me, made me feel more like myself—made me realise that here I was again at dear old Windy Gap. More than that, I would not let my mind dwell upon, except to think over what should be my first words to Kezia.

I knocked at last, and then for the first time I noticed that there was a light in the drawing-room shining through the blinds.

'Dear me,' I thought, 'how strange,' and then a terror came over me—supposing the house was let to strangers! I had quite forgotten that this was possible.

But before I had time to think of what I could in that case do, the door was opened.

'Kezia,' I gasped, but looking up, my new fears took shape.

It was not Kezia who stood there, it was a boy; a boy about two or three years older than I, not as tall as Gerard Nestor, though strong and sturdy looking, and with—even at that moment I thought so to myself—the very nicest face I had ever seen. He was sunburnt and ruddy, with short dark hair and bright kind-looking eyes, which when he smiled seemed to smile too. I daresay I did not see all that just then, but it is difficult now to separate my earliest remembrance of him from what I noticed afterwards, and there never was, there never has been, anything to contradict or confuse the first feeling, or instinct, that he was as good and true as he looked, my dear old Harry!

Just now, of course, his face had a very surprised expression.

'Kezia?' he repeated. 'I am sorry she is not in just now.'

It was an immense relief to gather from his words that she was not away.

'Will she be in soon?' I said, eagerly; 'I didn't know there was any one else in the house. May I—do you mind—if I come in and wait till Kezia returns?'

'Certainly,' said the boy, and as he spoke he stooped to pick up the bag and parcel which his quick eyes had caught sight of. 'My brother and I are staying here,' he said, as he crossed the little hall to the drawing-room door. 'We are alone here except for Kezia; we came here a fortnight ago from school, it was broken up because of illness.'

I think he went on speaking out of a sort of friendly wish to set me at my ease, and I listened half stupidly, I don't think I quite took in what he said. A younger boy was sitting in my own old corner, by the window, and a little table with a lamp on it was drawn up beside him.

'Lindsay,' said my guide, and the younger boy, who was evidently very well drilled by his brother, started up at once. 'This—this young lady,' for by this time he had found out I was a lady in spite of my brown paper parcel, 'has come to see Kezia. Put some coal on the fire, it's getting very low.'

Lindsay obeyed, eyeing me as he did so. He was smaller and slighter than his brother, with fair hair and a rather girlish face.

'Won't you sit down?' said Harry, pushing a chair forward to me.

I was dreadfully tired and very glad to sit down, and now my brain began to work a little more quickly. The name 'Lindsay' had started some recollection.

'Are you—' I began, 'is your name Vandeleur; are you the boys at school with Gerard Nestor?'

'Yes,' said Harry, opening his eyes very wide, 'and—would you mind telling me who you are?' he added bluntly.

'I'm Helena Wingfield,' I said. 'This is my home. I have come back alone, all the way from London, because——' and I stopped short.

'Because?' repeated Harry, looking at me with his kind, though searching eyes. Something in his manner made me feel that I must answer him. He was only a boy, not nearly as 'grown-up' in manners or appearance as Gerard Nestor; there was something even a little rough about him, but still he seemed at once to take the upper hand with me; I felt that I must respect him.

'Because—' I faltered, feeling it very difficult to keep from crying—'because I was so miserable in London in your—in Cousin Cosmo's house. He is my cousin, you know,' I went on, 'though his name is different.'

'I know,' said Harry, quietly, 'he's our cousin too, and our guardian. But you're better off than we are—you've got your grandmother. I know all about you, you see. But how on earth did she let you come away like this alone? Or is she—no, she can't be with you, surely?'

'No,' I replied, 'I'm alone, I thought I told you so; and grandmamma doesn't know I've come away, of course she wouldn't have let me. Nobody does know.'

Harry's face grew very grave indeed, and Lindsay raised himself from stooping over the fire, and stood staring at me as if I was something very extraordinary.

'Your grandmother doesn't know?' repeated Harry, 'nobody knows? How could you come away like that? Why, your grandmother will be nearly out of her mind about you!'

'No, she won't,' I replied, 'she doesn't care for me now, it's all quite different from what it used to be. Nobody cares for me, they'll only be very glad to be rid of the trouble of me.'

The tears had got up into my eyes by this time, and as I spoke they began slowly to drop on to my cheeks. Harry saw them, I knew, but I didn't feel as if I cared, though I think I wanted him to be sorry for me, his kind face looked as if he would be. So I was rather surprised when, instead of saying something sympathising and gentle, he answered rather abruptly—

'Helena, I don't mean to be rude, for of course it's no business of mine, but I think you must know that you are talking nonsense. I don't mean about Mr. Vandeleur, or any one but your grandmother; but as for saying that she has left off caring for you, that's all—perfectly impossible. I know enough for that; you've been with her all your life, and she's been most awfully good to you——'

'I know she has,' I interrupted, 'that makes it all the worse to bear.'

'We'll talk about that afterwards,' said Harry, 'it's your grandmother you should think of now—what do you mean to do?'

I stared at him, not quite understanding.

'I meant to stay here,' I said, 'with Kezia. If I can't—if you count it your house and won't let me stay, I must go somewhere else. But you can't stop my staying here till I've seen Kezia.'

Harry gave an impatient exclamation.

'Can't you understand,' he said, 'that I meant what are you going to do about letting your grandmother know where you are?'

'I hadn't thought about it,' I said; 'perhaps they won't find out till to-morrow morning.'

And then in my indignation I went on to tell him about the lonely life I had had lately, ending up with an account of my fall down the stairs and what I had overheard about being sent away to school.

'Poor Helena,' said Lindsay.

Harry, too, was sorry for me, I know, but just then he did not say much.

'All the same,' he replied, after listening to me, 'it wouldn't be right to risk your grandmother's being frightened, any longer. I'll send a telegram at once.'

The village post and telegraph office was only a quarter of a mile from our house. Harry turned to leave the room as he spoke.

'Lindsay, you'll look after Helena till I come back,' he said. 'I daresay Kezia won't be in for an hour or so.'

I stopped him.

'You mustn't send a telegram without telling me what you are going to say,' I said.

He looked at me.

'I shall just put—"Helena is here, safe and well,"' he replied, and to this I could not make any reasonable objection.

'I may be safe, but I don't think I am well,' I said grumblingly when he had gone. 'I'm starving, to begin with. I've had nothing to eat all day except two buns I bought at Paddington Station, and my head's aching dreadfully.'

'Oh, dear,' said Lindsay, who was a soft-hearted little fellow, and most ready to sympathise, especially in those troubles which he best understood, 'you must be awfully hungry. We had our tea some time ago, but Kezia always gives us supper. Come into the kitchen and let's see what we can find—or no, you're too tired—you stay here and I'll forage for you.'

He went off, returning in a few minutes with a jug of milk and a big slice of one of Kezia's own gingerbread cakes. I thought nothing had ever tasted so good, and my headache seemed to get better after eating it and drinking the milk.

I was just finishing when Harry came in again.

'That's right,' he said, 'I forgot that you must be hungry.'

Then we all three sat and looked at each other without speaking.

'Lindsay,' said Harry at last, 'you'd better finish that exercise you were doing when Helena came in,' and Lindsay obediently went back to the table.

I wanted Harry to speak to me. After all I had told him I thought he should have been sorry for me, and should have allowed that I had right on my side, instead of letting me sit there in silence. At last I could bear it no longer.

'I don't think,' I said, 'that you should treat me as if I were too naughty to speak to. I know quite well that you are not at all fond of Mr. Vandeleur yourself, and that should make you sorry for me.'

'I suppose you're thinking of what Gerard Nestor said,' Harry replied. 'It's true I know very little of Mr. Vandeleur, though I daresay he has meant to be kind to us. But what I can't make out is how you could treat your grandmother so. Lindsay and I have never had any one like what she's been to you.'

His words startled me.

'If I had thought,' I began, 'that she would really care—or be frightened about me—perhaps I—' but I had no time to say more, there came a knock at the front door and Lindsay started up.

'It's Kezia,' he said, 'she locks the back-door when she goes out in the evening and we let her in. She's been to church,' so off he flew, eager to be the one to give her the news of my unexpected arrival.

But I did not rush out to meet her, as I would have done at first. Harry's words had begun to make me a little less sure than I had been as to how even Kezia would look upon my conduct.