When Kate opened her eyes again, and turned her face up from the pillow, she saw the drops on the window shining in the sun, and Lady de la Poer, with her bonnet off, reading under it.

All that had happened began to return on Kate’s brain in a funny medley; and the first thing she exclaimed was, “Oh! those poor little fishes, how I must have frightened them!”

“My dear!”

“Do you think I did much mischief?” said Kate, raising herself on her arm. “I am sure the fishes must have been frightened, and the water-lilies broken. Oh! you can’t think how nasty their great coiling stems were—just like snakes! But those pretty blue and pink flowers! Did it hurt them much, do you think—or the fish?”

“I should think the fish had recovered the shock,” said Lady de la Poer, smiling; “but as to the lilies, I should be glad to be sure you had done yourself as little harm as you have to them.”

“Oh no,” said Kate, “I’m not hurt—if Aunt Barbara won’t be terribly angry. Now I wouldn’t mind that, only that I’ve spoilt Addie’s birthday, and all your day. Please, I’m very sorry!”

She said this so sadly and earnestly, that Lady de la Poer came and gave her a kind hiss of forgiveness, and said:

“Never mind, the girls are very happy with their father, and the rest is good for me.”

Kate thought this very comfortable and kind, and clung to the kind hand gratefully; but though it was a fine occasion for one of the speeches she could have composed in private, all that came out of her mouth was, “How horrid it is—the way everything turns out with me!”

“Nay, things need not turn out horrid, if a certain little girl would keep herself from being silly.”

“But I am a silly little girl!” cried Kate with emphasis. “Uncle Wardour says he never saw such a silly one, and so does Aunt Barbara!”

“Well, my dear,” said Lady de la Poer very calmly, “when clever people take to being silly, they can be sillier than anyone else.”

“Clever people!” cried Kate half breathlessly.

“Yes,” said the lady, “you are a clever child; and if you made the most of yourself, you could be very sensible, and hinder yourself from being foolish and unguarded, and getting into scrapes.”

Kate gasped. It was not pleasant to be in a scrape; and yet her whole self recoiled from being guarded and watchful, even though for the first time she heard she was not absolutely foolish. She began to argue, “I was naughty, I know, to teaze Mary; and Mary at home would not have let me; but I could not help the tumbling into the pond. I wanted to get out of the way of the lightning.”

“Now, Kate, you are trying to show how silly you can make yourself.”

“But I can’t bear thunder and lightning. It frightens me so, I don’t know what to do; and Aunt Jane is just as bad. She always has the shutters shut.”

“Your Aunt Jane has had her nerves weakened by bad health; but you are young and strong, and you ought to fight with fanciful terrors.”

“But it is not fancy about lightning. It does kill people.”

“A storm is very awful, and is one of the great instances of God’s power. He does sometimes allow His lightnings to fall; but I do not think it can be quite the thought of this that terrifies you, Kate, for the recollection of His Hand is comforting.”

“No,” said Kate honestly, “it is not thinking of that. It is that the glare—coming no one knows when—and the great rattling clap are so—so frightful!”

“Then, my dear, I think all you can do is to pray not only for protection from lightning and tempest, but that you may be guarded from the fright that makes you forget to watch yourself, and so renders the danger greater! You could not well have been drowned where you fell; but if it had been a river—”

“I know,” said Kate.

“And try to get self-command. That is the great thing, after all, that would hinder things from being horrid!” said Lady de la Poer, with a pleasant smile, just as a knock came to the door, and the maid announced that it was five o’clock, and Miss’s things were quite ready; and in return she was thanked, and desired to bring them up.

“Miss!” said Kate, rather hurt: “don’t they know who we are?”

“It is not such a creditable adventure that we should wish to make your name known,” said Lady de la Poer, rather drily; and Kate blushed, and became ashamed of herself.

She was really five minutes before she recovered the use of her tongue, and that was a long time for her. Lady de la Poer meantime was helping her to dress, as readily as Josephine herself could have done, and brushing out the hair, which was still damp. Kate presently asked where the old lady was.

“She had to go back as soon as the rain was over, to look after a nephew and niece, who are spending the day with her. She said she would look for our party, and tell them how we were getting on.”

“Then I have spoilt three people’s pleasure more!” said Kate ruefully. “Is the niece a little girl?”

“I don’t know; I fancy her grown up, or they would have offered clothes to you.”

“Then I don’t care!” said Kate.

“What for?”

“Why, for not telling my name. Once it would have been like a fairy tale to Sylvia and me, and have made up for anything, to see a countess—especially a little girl. But don’t you think seeing me would quite spoil that?”

Lady de la Poer was so much amused, that she could not answer at first; and Kate began to feel as if she had been talking foolishly, and turned her back to wash her hands.

“Certainly, I don’t think we are quite as well worth seeing as the Crystal Palace! You put me in mind of what Madame Campan said. She had been governess to the first Napoleon’s sisters; and when, in the days of their grandeur, she visited them, one of them asked her if she was not awe-struck to find herself among so much royalty. ‘Really,’ she said, ‘I can’t be much afraid of queens whom I have whipped!’”

“They were only mock queens,” said Kate.

“Very true. But, little woman, it is all mockery, unless it is the self that makes the impression; and I am afraid being perched upon any kind of pedestal makes little faults and follies do more harm to others. But come, put on your hat: we must not keep Papa waiting.”

The hat was the worst part of the affair; the colour of the blue edge of the ribbon had run into the white, and the pretty soft feather had been so daggled in the wet, that an old hen on a wet day was respectability itself compared with it, and there was nothing for it but to take it out; and even then the hat reminded Kate of a certain Amelia Matilda Bunny, whose dirty finery was a torment and a by-word in St. James’s Parsonage. Her frock and white jacket had been so nicely ironed out, as to show no traces of the adventure; and she disliked all the more to disfigure herself with such a thing on her head for the present, as well as to encounter Aunt Barbara by-and-by.

“There’s no help for it,” said Lady de la Poer, seeing her disconsolately surveying it; “perhaps it will not be bad for you to feel a few consequences from your heedlessness.”

Whether it were the hat or the shock, Kate was uncommonly meek and subdued as she followed Lady de la Poer out of the room; and after giving the little maid half a sovereign and many thanks for having so nicely repaired the damage, they walked back to the palace, and up the great stone stairs, Kate hanging down her head, thinking that everyone was wondering how Amelia Matilda Bunny came to be holding by the hand of a lady in a beautiful black lace bonnet and shawl, so quiet and simple, and yet such a lady!

She hardly even looked up when the glad exclamations of the four girls and their father sounded around her, and she could not bear their inquiries whether she felt well again. She knew that she owed thanks to Mary and her father, and apologies to them all; but she had not manner enough to utter them, and only made a queer scrape with her foot, like a hen scratching out corn, hung her head, and answered “Yes.”

They saw she was very much ashamed, and they were in a hurry besides; so when Lord de la Poer had said he had given all manner of thanks to the good old lady, he took hold of Kate’s hand, as if he hardly ventured to let go of her again, and they all made the best of their way to the station, and were soon in full career along the line, Kate’s heart sinking as she thought of Aunt Barbara. Fanny tried kindly to talk to her; but she was too anxious to listen, made a short answer, and kept her eyes fixed on the two heads of the party, who were in close consultation, rendered private by the noise of the train.

“If ever I answer for anyone again!” said Lord de la Poer. “And now for facing Barbara!”

“You had better let me do that.”

“What! do you think I am afraid?” and Kate thought the smile on his lip very cruel, as she could not hear his words.

“I don’t do you much injustice in thinking so,” as he shrugged up his shoulders like a boy going to be punished; “but I think Barbara considers you as an accomplice in mischief, and will have more mercy if I speak.”

“Very well! I’m not the man to prevent you. Tell Barbara I’ll undergo whatever she pleases, for having ever let go the young lady’s hand! She may have me up to the Lord Chancellor if she pleases!”

A little relaxation in the noise made these words audible; and Kate, who knew the Lord Chancellor had some power over her, and had formed her notions of him from a picture, in a history book at home, of Judge Jefferies holding the Bloody Assize, began to get very much frightened; and her friends saw her eyes growing round with alarm, and not knowing the exact cause, pitied her; Lord de la Poer seated her upon his knee, and told her that Mamma would take her home, and take care Aunt Barbara did not punish her.

“I don’t think she will punish me,” said Kate; “she does not often! But pray come home with me!” she added, getting hold of the lady’s hand.

“What would she do to you, then?”

“She would—only—be dreadful!” said Kate.

Lord de la Poer laughed; but observed, “Well, is it not enough to make one dreadful to have little girls taking unexpected baths in public? Now, Kate, please to inform me, in confidence, what was the occasion of that remarkable somerset.”

“Only the lightning,” muttered Kate.

“Oh! I was not certain whether your intention might not have been to make that polite address to an aquatic bird, for which you pronounced Mary not to have sufficient courage!”

Lady de la Poer, thinking this a hard trial of the poor child’s temper, was just going to ask him not to tease her; but Kate was really candid and good tempered, and she said, “I was wrong to say that! It was Mary that had presence of mind, and I had not.”

“Then the fruit of the adventure is to be, I hope, Look Before you Leap!—Eh, Lady Caergwent?”

And at the same time the train stopped, and among kisses and farewells, Kate and kind Lady de la Poer left the carriage, and entering the brougham that was waiting for them, drove to Bruton Street; Kate very grave and silent all the way, and shrinking behind her friend in hopes that the servant who opened the door would not observe her plight—indeed, she took her hat off on the stairs, and laid it on the table in the landing.

To her surprise, the beginning of what Lady de la Poer said was chiefly apology for not having taken better care of her. It was all quite true: there was no false excuse made for her, she felt, when Aunt Barbara looked ashamed and annoyed, and said how concerned she was that her niece should be so unmanageable; and her protector answered,

“Not that, I assure you! She was a very nice little companion, and we quite enjoyed her readiness and intelligent interest; but she was a little too much excited to remember what she was about when she was startled.”

“And no wonder,” said Lady Jane. “It was a most tremendous storm, and I feel quite shaken by it still. You can’t be angry with her for being terrified by it, Barbara dear, or I shall know what you think of me;—half drowned too—poor child!”

And Aunt Jane put her soft arm round Kate, and put her cheek to hers. Perhaps the night of Kate’s tears had really made Jane resolved to try to soften even Barbara’s displeasure; and the little girl felt it very kind, though her love of truth made her cry out roughly, “Not half drowned! Mary held me fast, and Lord de la Poer pulled me out!”

“I am sure you ought to be extremely thankful to them,” said Lady Barbara, “and overcome with shame at all the trouble and annoyance you have given!”

Lady de la Poer quite understood what the little girl meant by her aunt being dreadful. She would gladly have protected her; but it was not what could be begged off like punishment, nor would truth allow her to say there had been no trouble nor annoyance. So what she did say was, “When one has ten children, one reckons upon such things!” and smiled as if they were quite pleasant changes to her.

“Not, I am sure, with your particularly quiet little girls,” said Aunt Barbara. “I am always hoping that Katharine may take example by them.”

“Take care what you hope, Barbara,” said Lady de la Poer, smiling: “and at any rate forgive this poor little maiden for our disaster, or my husband will be in despair.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” said Lady Barbara gravely. “Katharine cannot have seriously expected punishment for what is not a moral fault. The only difference will be the natural consequences to herself of her folly.—You had better go down to the schoolroom, Katharine, have your tea, and then go to bed; it is nearly the usual time.”

Lady de la Poer warmly kissed the child, and then remained a little while with the aunts, trying to remove what she saw was the impression, that Kate had been complaining of severe treatment, and taking the opportunity of telling them what she herself thought of the little girl. But though Aunt Barbara listened politely, she could not think that Lady de la Poer knew anything about the perverseness, heedlessness, ill-temper, disobedience, and rude ungainly ways, that were so tormenting. She said no word about them herself, because she would not expose her niece’s faults; but when her friend talked Kate’s bright candid conscientious character, her readiness, sense, and intelligence, she said to herself, and perhaps justly, that here was all the difference between at home and abroad, an authority and a stranger.

Meantime, Kate wondered what would be the natural consequences of her folly. Would she have a rheumatic fever or consumption, like a child in a book?—and she tried breathing deep, and getting up a little cough, to see if it was coming! Or would the Lord Chancellor hear of it? He was new bugbear recently set up, and more haunting than even a gunpowder treason in the cellars! What did he do with the seals? Did he seal up mischievous heiresses in closets, as she had seen a door fastened by two seals and a bit of string? Perhaps the Court of Chancery was full of such prisons! And was the woolsack to smother them with, like the princes in the Tower?

It must be owned that it was only when half asleep at night that Kate was so absurd. By day she knew very well that the Lord Chancellor was only a great lawyer; but she also knew that whenever there was any puzzle or difficulty about her or her affairs, she always heard something mysteriously said about applying to the Lord Chancellor, till she began to really suspect that it was by his commands that Aunt Barbara was so stern with her; and that if he knew of her fall into the pond, something terrible would come of it. Perhaps that was why the De la Poers kept her name so secret!

She trembled as she thought of it; and here was another added to her many terrors. Poor little girl! If she had rightly feared and loved One, she would have had no room for the many alarms that kept her heart fluttering!