Emmeline awoke next morning with the cares of the mother of a family weighing on her mind. Yesterday, amid the excitement of adopting Diamond Jubilee and of the various adventures which had followed, she had hardly had leisure to realise all the difficulties and anxieties the carrying out of her plan would involve; but now that the first flush of romance was beginning to fade into the light of common day, they stood out with unpleasant clearness. What if Diamond Jubilee should go on refusing to live alone in the Feudal Castle? For one evening he might be fairly safe from discovery in the summer-house; for one night Micky might go out and sleep in the wood without anyone becoming aware of his absence; but Emmeline had sense enough to see that such arrangements could not possibly be lasting. Even for once they were very risky. Suppose Micky should fail to come back before Jane went to call him?

She felt under her pillow for her little gold watch. It was a quarter to seven; in another half-hour it would be time to get up, and Jane would come to call them. What a hue and cry would be raised if Micky were missing!

A restless feeling seized her that she must get up then and there and go to see whether he was safe in his bed; so she scrambled into her dressing-gown and slippers, and hurried out of the room and down the passage and steps which led to the old part of the house. Her knees shook as she opened Micky’s door and crept in. Suppose the bed should be empty?

Joy! Micky was lying there, so sound asleep that she could almost have believed the adventures of the night before only a dream, had it not been for the mud on his house-shoes, which were lying in the middle of the floor mixed up with a heap of his other clothes, all evidently left just as he had got out of them on his return.

‘It must have been raining in the night, for there was no mud yesterday evening,’ thought Emmeline, as she folded the clothes and put them neatly on a chair, under which she placed the shoes. She was a tidy child by nature, and besides, as she reflected, Jane was much less likely to notice that the shoes were muddy, if they were in the right place.

She went back to her own room feeling much easier in her mind. For that time, at all events, the danger was over, and surely the very fact that Micky was lying there so peacefully gave good hope that it would not again be necessary to run such a risk. Micky could never have gone to sleep so calmly if Diamond Jubilee had been in a great state of distress at being left alone in the Feudal Castle. So, at least, Emmeline told herself and tried to believe.

Several times, while the little girls were dressing, and while Kitty, who had all the delight of being in a plot without the anxieties of responsibility, was pouring out a constant stream of excited chatter, Emmeline looked nervously out of the window, half expecting to see Diamond Jubilee lurking somewhere about the garden. There was never any sign of him, however, and her spirits rose higher each moment. If only he were settling down to live happily in the Feudal Castle, everything would be more simple!

‘I can’t think what can have happened to Micky,’ remarked Aunt Grace, as they were beginning breakfast that morning without his having made an appearance; ‘it’s not often he oversleeps himself. I’m afraid the Fair has been too much for you young people,’ she added, in a playfully teasing voice, as Kitty gave a great yawn.

‘Oh, it’s not that,’ began Kitty, eager to defend the Fair; ‘I think it’s——’ Here she became suddenly aware of Emmeline’s frowns, and broke off with reddening cheeks. What a scolding she would have from Emmeline presently!

Fortunately for Kitty, Aunt Grace was not attending. She was reading a letter which seemed to contain bad news, for her expression grew more and more distressed. She read it over twice, as though hoping against hope that she might have made some mistake, and when she laid it down Emmeline saw that her hands were shaking.

‘I’ve just had a piece of very bad news,’ she said quietly. ‘Mary King—the very dear friend I used to live with in London—is dangerously ill—dying, I’m afraid. I shall have to go to her to-day or—— Kitty, would you mind fetching Bradshaw? It’s on the drawing-room writing-table.’

Kitty bustled off, awestruck and yet pleased with the importance of being able to help at such a crisis, if only by fetching Bradshaw.

‘Oh dear, it’s last month’s—I was forgetting,’ said Aunt Grace wearily, as Kitty came running back with it. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t be safe to trust to it—so many trains change in September.’

‘Suppose I go out and buy another?’ suggested Kitty, eagerly. To be sent out shopping in the middle of breakfast would be a delightful break in the ordinary routine of life.

‘You wouldn’t get one at any of the village shops,’ said Aunt Grace, putting her hand to her forehead. ‘Stay! the Robinsons might possibly have one.’

‘I’ll run round to the Vicarage and ask them,’ broke in Kitty, rushing off almost before Aunt Grace had time for the absent ‘Very well,’ which was all she answered.

‘I’ll just go and see that she puts on a hat,’ murmured Emmeline, more to herself than to Aunt Grace who had no ears for such things just then. The precaution proved a necessary one. Emmeline was only just in time to stop Kitty from running out at the front door hatless, gloveless, and still in her morning pinafore, a garment which had seen much active service in the course of its career.

Micky was coming downstairs by way of the banisters when Emmeline made her way back to the dining-room. ‘I say, is Aunt Grace in a wax?’ he inquired.

‘What about?’ asked Emmeline. ‘Oh, because of your being late for breakfast? No, I expect she has forgotten all about you. She’s just heard that her dearest friend is dying.’

Micky’s round, impudent face suddenly fell, and he was so much awestruck that he had got to the dining-room door before it occurred to him to make any remark.

When the two children came into the room Aunt Grace was sitting very still, gazing straight in front of her, with eyes that did not seem to be seeing anything. Without saying a word Micky went straight up to her and gave her a rough hug.

‘My own boy!’ she murmured, a little absently, but very tenderly, as she stroked his ruffled head—Micky’s toilet that morning had left much to be desired—and seemed to find a certain comfort in the touch. Emmeline suddenly felt a queer lump rising in her throat. Kitty could run messages for Aunt Grace, and Micky could comfort her; she alone could do nothing.

‘Won’t you try and eat something, Aunt Grace?’ she suggested, shyly, after a moment. ‘Let me butter some toast for you.’

‘Thank you, Emmeline,’ said Aunt Grace, gratefully; and though she had no appetite for food just then, she made a brave effort to eat the toast so as not to disappoint the child, and the little kindness given and received brought them nearer together than ever before.

‘I didn’t know Miss King was ill, even,’ Emmeline ventured, timidly. ‘It’s very sudden, isn’t it?’

‘In a sense, yes,’ said Aunt Grace sadly; ‘but she has known, and I have known for a long time past, that she had this disease, and that the end might come at any time. That was why I went on living with her in London till her sister could return from India, instead of coming at once to look after you, as I should naturally have done. She would have let me go, poor darling, for she never thought of herself. But I just couldn’t leave her alone, knowing that all this suffering and danger might come on at any time.’

It was the first time that Aunt Grace had talked to Emmeline so much as she would have done to a grown-up person, and the little girl listened with a strange mixture of feelings, among which gratification, perplexity, and self-reproach came uppermost. She had hitherto always taken for granted that Aunt Grace had stayed in London because she was absorbed in a round of gaiety, and now that the real reason appeared to have been such a very different one, she found her whole point of view shifting in a disconcerting fashion. Could it be that Aunt Grace was really a quite different kind of person from what Emmeline had always imagined her?

There was little time for considering the question, for just at that moment Alice came in with a telegram. ‘It’s just as I feared from the letter,’ said Aunt Grace, after she had torn it open with trembling fingers. ‘All the worst symptoms are confirmed. I shall have to start by the next train,’ and with that she hurried away to pack and to give a few hasty directions to the servants.

‘Can’t I help you, Aunt Grace?’ asked Emmeline, running after her.

‘Well, will you look after Micky’s breakfast, and Kitty’s too, when she comes back?’ said Aunt Grace, with a faint smile. ‘That will help me more than anything.’

Sympathy had by no means dulled the edge of Micky’s appetite, and he was still in the middle of a leisurely breakfast when Kitty burst in, followed rather more quietly by Mr. Faulkner. ‘Aunt Grace—where’s Aunt Grace?’ she demanded, breathlessly.

‘I’m going to London to-day myself, so I want your aunt to let me travel with her and help her all I can,’ explained Mr. Faulkner to Emmeline, as Kitty ran away to look for Aunt Grace.

‘Thank you; I’m sure she’ll be very glad,’ said Emmeline, in her best grown-up manner. ‘Won’t you sit down and let me pour you out a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks very much, but I’ve had breakfast already,’ said Mr. Faulkner; and just at that moment Aunt Grace herself came in, with Kitty.

Mr. Faulkner did not wait to say ‘How do you do?’ Instead, he began at once: ‘You’ll let me travel with you, won’t you?’ not at all as if he was proposing a kindness, but in the way people ask for something they want very much.

‘Thank you! I shall be very glad,’ said Aunt Grace, and for one moment she smiled—smiled more with her eyes than with her lips, even though her eyes were full of tears. Emmeline felt in a vague, wondering way that Mr. Faulkner’s suggestion had comforted Aunt Grace more than her toast, or Kitty’s eagerness in running messages, or even Micky’s hug. It was odd, she thought, for Aunt Grace did not seem a person who would mind travelling alone.

He went away again almost directly afterwards, and there followed a time of general bustle and confusion. ‘It’s a pity we can’t take Diamond Jubilee his breakfast now,’ remarked Emmeline, chancing to find herself alone with the twins. ‘It would be quite easy to get it out of the house without anyone noticing while they’re all so busy; but it’s such a long way to the Feudal Castle that I’m afraid it would be lesson-time before we could get back.’

‘Oh, but he isn’t at the Feudal Castle,’ said Micky calmly. ‘I believe he’d be in the summer-house still if I hadn’t told him he must jolly well get out if he didn’t want me to lick him. I expect he’s hanging about somewhere near the garden.’

‘Micky, you surely didn’t sleep in the summer-house?’ asked Emmeline, in a frightened voice.

Micky nodded.

‘You couldn’t expect us to lug those beastly blankets all the way to the Feudal Castle,’ he said.

‘But, Micky, it was really risky,’ said Emmeline. ‘Just supposing Mr. Brown had found you!’

‘Well, he didn’t, anyhow,’ said Micky, ‘and it wasn’t likely he would; nobody hardly ever goes there except us. It was really much safer than if we had gone to the Feudal Castle. How would I ever have known when it was time to come back, in the middle of the wood?’

There was something in this, but still Emmeline could not help feeling that it had been a risk, and a risk that Diamond Jubilee must not again be allowed to run. Then, as a fresh idea suddenly struck her, ‘What about the blankets?’ she gasped—‘you haven’t surely left them——’

‘Oh, they’re as safe as safe,’ Micky reassured her. ‘I thought of a simply lovely place to keep them—Punch’s kennel!’

‘But they’ll be seen as soon as ever Punch is unchained!’ said Emmeline, in a panic. ‘Oh, how could you be so silly?’

‘It wasn’t silly,’ said Micky. ‘I pushed them right to the back of the kennel, where it’s all dark. Nobody would ever see them unless they stooped down and looked right in, and they’d never think of doing that.’

‘Well, perhaps not,’ said Emmeline doubtfully, ‘but I’m afraid they’ll be very dirty and smelly when they come out again.’

‘Oh, they’ll only smell rather doggy,’ said Micky cheerfully.

It struck Emmeline that Jane might not take it quite so calmly as Micky, if next time she went to prepare the spare-room for a visitor she found the best blankets smelling doggy. Still, it was to be hoped that next time was still a long way off, and meantime the kennel had one advantage as a storing-place—namely, that it would be possible to take the blankets out of it without being observed. Perhaps, after all, Micky had done the best that could be done under the circumstances. Emmeline felt quite bewildered with the new and unthought of difficulties and problems which were continually cropping up. She had never realised that the secret adoption of a child would prove so complicated a business.

‘Well, I think I’ll go out with the milk and see if I can find him,’ she said aloud, after a moment’s anxious reflection. ‘Even if I don’t I can always leave it in some safe outdoor place. Don’t either of you come with me. Aunt Grace may want us to go messages, and it would be awkward if you were out as well.’

Emmeline ran up to the schoolroom, took the glass of milk out of the cupboard, and hurried downstairs with it. When she had got it safely into the garden without anyone having noticed her, she began to breathe freely again.

Alas! An unforeseen danger was following her down the garden path. She had been thinking so much of escaping with her milk, unseen by Jane, Cook, or Aunt Grace, that she had forgotten all about Mr. Brown till now, when she heard his wheel-barrow grating on the gravel behind her. It was a dismaying sound, for Mr. Brown had inconveniently keen eyes, and if he saw the milk he would certainly wonder what she was doing with it out there. What was worse, he would wonder about it to Jane and Cook, for Mr. Brown’s standard of honour in not telling tales was not as high as it might have been. So Emmeline almost ran along the path, without daring so much as to look round, and, pushing open the garden door, fled through it and into the lane so hastily that a good deal of her milk splashed out on to her dress.

‘Hello!’ called a voice, as she was trying, without much success, to rub out the stain with her pocket-handkerchief. Looking up, startled, she saw Diamond Jubilee’s disreputable little figure leaning over the railings which fenced off the wood.

‘You should say “Good-morning,” not “Hulloa,”’ said Emmeline with dignity, as soon as she had recovered from her start. ‘See, I have brought you your breakfast. Drink it quickly, for I have to get back to—to my work.’ She had been on the point of saying ‘to lessons,’ but ‘work’ sounded more dignified.

‘Why, I reckoned you was a lady,’ said Diamond Jubilee, pausing between two gulps to give her one of his critical stares.

‘Well, so I am,’ said Emmeline, perplexed and a little offended.

‘Ladies don’t do no work,’ said the boy.

‘Oh yes, they do,’ said Emmeline earnestly. ‘Everybody that’s worth anything does work. Why, even the Prince of Wales has “I serve” for his motto. That’s one of the things I’ll have to teach you, Diamond Jubilee, that you can’t be a real gentleman unless you work for other people.’

‘My father were a gentleman more often than not,’ remarked Diamond Jubilee, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

It struck Emmeline that she must certainly buy him one or two pocket-handkerchiefs. To be sure, he needed an entire new outfit, for what he had on was only fit for a bonfire, but her present means would, alas! only run to absolute necessities, such as food and pocket-handkerchiefs.

‘Well, then, you must try to follow your father’s example,’ she said aloud. She did not know that to be ‘a gentleman’ in Diamond Jubilee’s sense meant to be out of work. ‘Think how it would have grieved him if he could have seen you yesterday afternoon trying to steal my purse! You must always be a good boy, for his sake.’

Now, as a matter of fact, the late Mr. Jones had frequently varied his periods of being a gentleman with times in prison, for he had combined a strong turn for petty crime with a distinct talent for being found out, so it was no wonder that his son stared at Emmeline in vacant surprise. He was never a boy who troubled himself much to understand puzzling things, however, so he passed on to a subject of more practical importance.

‘Aren’t you going to give me nothing more to eat?’ he demanded, with a return to his professional whine. ‘That ain’t much of a breakfast, that aren’t.’

‘Do you know, Diamond Jubilee, I’m afraid you’re rather greedy?’ said Emmeline. ‘You oughtn’t to want anything more after that glassful of good milk. I’m sure it’s more than what you’ve been used to having for breakfast.’

‘Well, that aren’t, then,’ said Diamond Jubilee sulkily. ‘I’m used to a meat breakfast, I am.’

‘I’m afraid that’s a story,’ said Emmeline, gravely, ‘and it’s very wicked to tell stories, besides being silly, for you might know I shouldn’t believe anything so absurd.’

Emmeline spoke out of the wisdom she had gained from her little story-books, in which ragged street-urchins were always pictured as breakfasting on dry bread—if, indeed, they had any breakfast at all. But, as a matter of fact, Diamond Jubilee’s statement was not altogether without foundation. There had been times in Mother Grimes’ establishment when money became mysteriously plentiful, and at such times she and Diamond Jubilee and the other little boys who lived with her, had fared with reckless luxury till the last penny had been spent. To be sure, there had been other times when they had really had almost as little to eat as Emmeline imagined—indeed, they had been passing through one of those uncomfortable intervals just lately, which accounted for Diamond Jubilee’s willingness to let himself be adopted—but the memory of that and all the other disagreeables of his former life was fast losing its vividness.

‘I did used to have meat breakfasts,’ he repeated stubbornly.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Emmeline, severely. ‘But I haven’t time to talk about that just now. What I wanted to say was to tell you how vexed I am to hear that you spent last night in the summer-house. Why, just suppose Mr. Brown had found you there when he came to work this morning! There would have been a dreadful fuss, and you would have been sent back to Mother Grimes!’

‘And do you reckon I’d mind that?’ he asked, scornfully. ‘I’d a deal sooner be with her than with you, I can tell you.’

Emmeline took this for mere bravado, but she turned rather white, none the less, and it was with an effort that she recovered herself and said gently: ‘I don’t think you mean that. Anyhow, I hope you’ll try and be a brave boy to-night, and not make a fuss about sleeping in your own little house. It’s true it is rather bare just at present, but think how many poor little boys have no house at all to sleep in.’

‘Lor! how she do jaw!’ exclaimed Diamond Jubilee, with a rude laugh.

If Emmeline had been white a minute before, she turned crimson now.

‘You are a very naughty, ungrateful boy!’ she cried, as the tears rushed to her eyes, ‘and I’m not going to waste any more time bothering about you. Give me that glass, please,’ and, having snatched it out of his hands, she ran across the lane into their own garden, feeling more hurt and angry than she had ever done in her life before.

She calmed down a little after she had rushed upstairs to her own room and rinsed out the glass, and by the time she had dabbed her eyes with a wet sponge and dried them with a towel, she had almost forgiven Diamond Jubilee.

‘After all, it only shows how badly he needs someone to teach him better,’ she told herself, bravely, ‘so I must try to be patient with him, poor boy! But, oh dear, I wonder whether Kathleen ever found those children whom she was an angel to, so trying?’