Chapter Eight.

Shrimps and Good-Byes.

Six months had passed. Susan’s visit to Ramsgate was drawing to a close, for her mother had said in her last letter that she should soon be able to fix the day of her return. Six whole months! How long, how endless they had seemed to look forward to, but how very short they were to look back on. Susan could hardly believe they were really gone. She remembered well how desolate she had felt at first, how strange everything had been to her, and how she had longed to see a familiar face; but now, though of course it would be delightful to go home, there really were some things in Ramsgate she would be sorry to leave. One of these was the sea. It had almost frightened her at first, but now she had grown to love its changing face and voice, which were scarcely ever the same for two days together. For sometimes, sparkling with smiles, it would keep up a pleasant ripple of conversation, breaking now and again into laughter. At other times, darkly frowning, it would toss itself up and down in restless vexations, and hurl its waves on the shore with hoarse exclamations of anger. You could never be sure of it for long together, and in this it was strangely like the other thing which Susan felt she should miss—Sophia Jane. She and the sea were about equal in the uncertainty of their moods, for it must not be supposed that her nature was so changed by her illness that she became at once a good and agreeable little girl. This is not easy when one has become used for a long while to be tiresome and ill-tempered, for “habit,” as Mrs Winslow had said, is a “giant power.” The longer we have done wrong the more difficult it is to do right. And yet in some ways she was altered; she was not quite the same Sophia Jane who had said, “I like to vex ’em,” six months ago.

Grateful for past kindness she now made many small efforts to please Aunt Hannah, and would even sometimes check herself when most irritated by Nanna’s and Margaretta’s reproofs. Naughty or good, she had now become such a close companion to Susan that any pleasure or amusement unshared by her would have been blank and dull. Now Susan knew what it was to have a companion she did not like to think of the time when she should learn lessons alone, and play alone, and have no one to talk over things with and make plans. Troubles were lessened and joys doubled by being shared, and when she thought of life at home without Sophia Jane she felt quite sad. At such moments she wondered whether her friend would be sorry too when the time came for them to part, and whether she really cared at all about her. It was difficult to find out, for Sophia Jane was not given to express herself affectionately, or to use terms of endearment to anyone. She had never been accustomed to it. The two people to whom she showed most attachment were Monsieur La Roche and his sister, and even to these she was never what Mademoiselle called “expansive.” Remembering this, Susan felt it was quite possible that Sophia Jane would see her depart with an unmoved face and no word of regret, and sometimes this made her unhappy. She would have given a good deal for a word of fondness from her once despised companion, but all her efforts to extract it were useless.

“Shall you be dull after I go away?” she would ask, and Sophia Jane would answer shortly:

“You’re not going yet. What’s the good of talking about it?”

A day was now drawing near in which both the little girls were much interested—Sophia Jane’s birthday. Susan’s present, prepared with much caution and secrecy, was quite ready, and put away in a drawer till the time came. She had bought the wax head out of Miss Powter’s shop which Sophia Jane had admired long ago, and fixed it to the body of the old doll. Then little by little she had carefully made a complete set of clothing for it, after the pattern of those Grace wore, and Mademoiselle Delphine had added the promised grey silk bonnet to the costume. Altogether it made a substantial and handsome present, and Susan often went to look at it, and pictured to herself her companion’s surprise and pleasure. And besides this there was something else to look forward to, for Aunt Hannah had promised that on this same occasion the children should go to Pegwell Bay and have shrimps for tea.

The Pegwell Bay shrimps were already famous in those days, and were considered far superior to any caught elsewhere; but the place itself had not yet become noisy and crowded as was the case in after years. It was still a quiet and beautiful little bay with only one countrified inn standing close to the shore. In the garden of this there were green arbours, or boxes, with neat tables and chairs, where you might sit at your ease, look out over the sea, watch the vessels sailing in the distance, and eat the dusky-brown shrimps for which Pegwell Bay was well-known. To these were added small new loaves of a peculiar shape, fresh butter, and tea. Nothing else could be had, but this simple fare was all very good of its kind, and to Susan and Sophia Jane it was more attractive than the finest banquet. And its attractions were increased by the fact that Aunt Hannah had given Sophia Jane leave to ask whom she chose to join her birthday party.

“Whom shall you ask?” said Susan as soon as they were alone after this permission.

“Only two people beside you,” answered Sophia Jane immediately. “Monsieur La Roche and his sister.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Susan. She paused a moment, for it seemed a bold stroke on Sophia Jane’s part; then she added:

“I should like them to go very much; but sha’n’t you ask anyone else? Not Margaretta and Nanna?”

“I don’t mind asking them,” said Sophia Jane, “because I know they won’t come.”

And she was quite right, for on hearing of who were to form Sophia Jane’s party to Pegwell Bay, Nanna and Margaretta became very scornful.

“What a ridiculous party!” exclaimed Margaretta. “Now, if you were to ask the little Winslows and their governess, and Mr and Mrs Bevis and those nice-looking pupils, how much better it would be. Nanna and I would go with you then.”

“Of course,” added Nanna, “if you’re going to have Monsieur and his sister, who always look such absurd objects, you couldn’t ask any one else. But I call it very nonsensical. I wonder Aunt Hannah allows it?”

“Aunt said I might ask who I liked,” replied Sophia Jane, “and I do like Monsieur and Mademoiselle, and I don’t like the Winslows, and I can’t bear Mr Bevis’ pupils. You and Nanna may come if you like.”

“We’re much obliged to you,” answered Margaretta with dignity, “but we greatly prefer staying at home.”

So as Sophia Jane had said, there were only to be two guests beside Susan, for though Aunt Hannah was invited and made no objection at all to the party, she excused herself from joining it.

The invitation written and accepted, they had now only to wait till the time came, to wish heartily for a fine day, and to look forward to the event with an excitement quite unknown to those who have many pleasures. It seemed slow in coming, but it came. The weather was bright and cloudless, and nothing was wanting to their satisfaction. It is true Nanna and Margaretta still looked scornfully superior when the party was mentioned, but that was not enough to spoil it, and both Susan and Sophia Jane set forth on their expedition with the lightest possible hearts, prepared for enjoyment.

Aunt Hannah was to take them to meet Monsieur and Mademoiselle at the place where the omnibus started for Pegwell Bay, and when they got within a short distance they could see that their punctual guests were already there waiting. They were both in the most cheerful spirits, and had attired themselves in a manner suitable to “le voyage.” Monsieur, in particular, had cast aside his ordinary garments, and had now quite a marine and holiday air. He wore a white waistcoat and trousers rather shrunk, a sailor hat, and a short blue coat; slung round him by a bright new leather strap he carried a telescope in a neat case, with which to survey distant shipping, and in his hand a cane with a tassel. Mademoiselle on her side had not forgotten to do honour to the occasion by a freshly-trimmed bonnet, and a small bouquet of spring flowers in the front of her black dress.

After some delay—partly caused by Monsieur, who had many polite speeches to make, and stepped about in front of Aunt Hannah with repeated bows, and partly by Mademoiselle’s extreme reluctance to getting on to the top of the omnibus—the start was really made. Susan drew a deep breath of delight, and thought it was the most beautiful drive she had ever had.

Their way, after they had rattled through the streets of the town, lay for some distance along a sandy road with woods on each side of it. The sea was hidden, but there were the fresh green buds on the trees to look at, and the blue sky overhead flecked with little white clouds, and the larks to listen to singing high up in the air over distant cornfields. By and by the road came out on the cliff again, and soon made a sudden dip so that the sea was now quite close to them, and on the other side another sea of freshly-springing wheat stretched away inland for miles. It was such a steep and stony hill that Mademoiselle began to be seized with panics of terror in case the horses should slip, so that she often clung tightly to Adolphe and cried, “Ciel!” This enlivened the journey a good deal, and she joined in laughing at herself with much good-nature, though it was really with a sigh of relief that she exclaimed, “Nous voici!” when the omnibus stopped at the door of the inn. It stood about half-way down the road leading to the shore, high enough to have a broad view over the sea, which was now at low tide. In the distance you could see the shrimpers slowly pushing their nets before them, and nearer on the rocks below the bent forms of people gathering cockles; the grey gulls wheeled about overhead and poised themselves on their broad wings, or rode triumphantly on the gentle rippling of the water, and far far away on the edge of everything the shadowy sails of ships glided slowly past like ghosts. To these last Monsieur turned his attention, and having unstrapped his telescope took up a commanding position on a rising mound in the garden, and proceeded to sweep the horizon. Not with much success at first, but after it had been pointed out to him that he was looking at the wrong end he got on better, and Mademoiselle and the children leaving him thus employed strolled down to the shore until the tea should be ready. When there it was astonishing and delightful to discover Mademoiselle’s extreme ignorance of marine objects. She had lived nearly all her life in Paris, she told them, and since she had been at Ramsgate had been too busy to go further than the town. It was most interesting, therefore, to search for curiosities, explain their habits to her and tell her their names, and she never failed to express the utmost wonder and admiration as each fresh one appeared. Even when Susan suddenly placed a star-fish on her lap as she sat gazing over the sea, and requested her to feel how flabby it was, she came bravely through the trial, though she inwardly regarded it with disgust and fear. Then with garments held tightly round her, and feverishly grasping her parasol, she was persuaded to venture on a little journey over the slippery rocks. Sophia Jane and Susan, on either hand, advised the safest places to tread on, watched each footstep carefully, and made encouraging remarks as though to a child. Finally, after many perils and narrow escapes, she was conducted with much applause safely back to the dry land, and up again to the inn garden.

Here they found Monsieur in a state of placid enjoyment expecting their return, and in a convenient arbour facing the sea the meal was ready prepared. Sophia Jane poured out the tea because it was her birthday, but not without difficulty, for the tea-pot was enormous, and her hands so small and weak, that she had to stand up and use her utmost strength. No one offered to help, however, for they well knew that it would have been considered an insult. Unlike some entertainments much looked forward to, Sophia Jane’s party was a complete success. There were no disappointments at Pegwell Bay. Everything was good, everyone was merry, the shrimps more than came up to everyone’s expectation.

The meal was nearly finished, and it was drawing near the time for the omnibus to start back to Ramsgate, when Mademoiselle suddenly drew a letter from her pocket.

“Stupid animal that I am!” she exclaimed, “I have till this moment forgotten to give you this, Adolphe. It arrived after you left this morning. My head is turned, it appears, by going to fêtes.”

She smiled at the little girls as she handed the letter to her brother, and he put on his spectacles and opened it. Susan watched him. It was a thin foreign envelope, and the letter inside it was short, but it seemed to puzzle him a great deal. He held it out at arm’s length, frowned at it, and gave it an impatient tap with one finger. Then he took off his glasses, rubbed them, put them on, and read it again, after which he rose suddenly, and leaning across the table, stretched the letter out to his sister, and said in a strange excited voice:

“Read Delphine—read, my sister.”

Delphine was not long in doing so, one swift glance was enough, and next, to the children’s surprise, she rushed from her place to Adolphe’s side, threw her arms round his neck, kissed him a great many times, and burst into a torrent of tears. What could be the matter? What dreadful misfortune could have happened? Susan and Sophia Jane looked at each other in alarm. A moment before all had been happiness and gaiety, and now both Monsieur and his sister appeared to have lost all control over themselves, and were giving way to the most heartfelt distress. Some terrible news must have been contained in that letter. They stood at a little distance from the table, clasping each other’s hands, uttering broken French sentences, and lifting their eyes to the sky, while tears rolled unrestrained down their faces. “If any one else saw them,” said Susan to herself, “they would think they were mad,” and she looked with some anxiety towards the inn door. There was no one in sight fortunately, and soon, a little subdued but still in a strange excited state, the brother and sister advanced hand in hand to the table. The odd part of it was that Mademoiselle was now actually laughing though her eyes were wet with tears.

“Forgive us, my children,” she said, “it relieves the heart to weep. Trouble we have borne without complaint, but now joy comes, the tears come also. Adolphe, my brother, you are more able to speak. Tell them. I can no more.”

She sunk down in a chair and covered her face with her hands.

Thus appealed to, Monsieur stood up at the end of the table facing the sea, like one prepared to make a speech, took off his sailor hat, and passed his hand thoughtfully over his closely-cropped head. Susan and Sophia Jane, still puzzled and confused, stared up at him spellbound without saying a word, deeply impressed. For suddenly there seemed to be a change in Monsieur. He looked taller, and drew a deep breath like one who is relieved from some oppression. It was as though a burden had dropped from his shoulders, and set him free to stand quite upright at last.

His grey eyes, though red with weeping, had a light in them now of hope and courage, and he fixed them on the distance as though he were talking to someone far away across the sea in his native country.

“My children,” he said, “my sister has told you that we have borne our troubles without complaint, and that is true. But they have been hard troubles. Not only often to be hungry and very weary in the body—that is bad, but there is worse. It is a sore thing to be hungry in the mind and grieved in the spirit. To leave one’s real work undone, so that one may earn something to eat and drink, to have no outlet for one’s thoughts, to lose the conversation and sympathy of literary men. That is a bondage and a slavery, and that is what a man who is very poor must do. He must leave his best part unused, wasted, unknown. He is bound and fettered as though with iron. But that is now past. To-day we hear that we are no longer poor people. This letter tells me that I am now a rich man. Free. Free to go back to Paris to take up again my neglected work, to see my sister’s adorable patience rewarded by a life of ease and leisure—to see again my friends—”

Monsieur stopped suddenly, and Mademoiselle, clasping his hand, immediately rushed in with a mixture of French and English.

“Oh, Adolphe! Adolphe! it is too much. Figure it all to yourself! The Champs Elysées, and the Bois, and the toilettes and the sunshine. To dine at Phillippe’s perhaps, and go the theatre, and to hear French words, and see French faces, and taste a French cuisine again. Nothing more English at all! No more cold looks and cold skies—”

“Calm yourself, Delphine, my sister,” said Monsieur, “we forget our little friends here.”

“It is true,” said Mademoiselle wiping her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, and glancing at the children’s upturned astonished faces, “I am too much exalted. I will restrain myself. Voyons petites amies,” she continued, sitting down between them, “it is this which has so much moved us. It is that a magnificent, yes, a magnificent fortune comes to my brother by the death of his cousin. It is a little sudden at first, but,” drawing herself up with dignity, “he will adorn the position, and we shall now resume the ‘De’ in our name, for our family is an ancient one.”

“Shall you go away?” asked Sophia Jane.

“Assuredly. My brother,” looking with much admiration at Adolphe, “will now have large and important affairs to conduct in Paris.”

“I am sorry,” said Sophia Jane dejectedly.

Mademoiselle kissed her and Susan with much affection.

“If the sky is cold and grey here in England, we have also found good and warm hearts,” she said, “which we shall never forget. It is Gambetta with his little tinkling bell who will remind us of some of them.”

But Sophia Jane still looked grave. It was difficult to be glad that Monsieur and his sister were going away, and Susan’s spirits were also more sober, though it was a relief to find that the letter had contained good news. A quietness had indeed fallen upon the whole party, for Adolphe, now that the first excitement was over, sat silently musing with his gaze fixed dreamily on the distance. Even for Mademoiselle it was almost impossible to keep on talking all alone, and her remarks gradually became fewer until the start homewards was made. Then the movement and the chill evening air seemed to restore her usual briskness, and she proceeded to describe to the children the exact situation of the “appartement” which she and Adolphe would occupy on their return to Paris, and make many brilliant plans for the future. As they entered the town, observing that her brother still remained silent and thoughtful, she touched him gently on the knee.

“A quoi pense tu, mon frère?” she asked.

“Of many things, my sister,” he replied in French; “and amongst them, of how we shall best recompense the brave Madame Jones.”

Buskin was waiting to take the little girls home, and looked on with severity at Monsieur’s parting bows and graceful wavings of the sailor hat.

“Make my compliments to Madame, your aunt,” said Delphine to Susan, “and say that I shall wait on her to-morrow.”

So Sophia Jane’s party to Pegwell Bay was over, and all that remained was to repeat the wonderful news of Monsieur’s fortune at Belmont Cottage. It was received with enough excitement and interest to be quite satisfactory, and to be sufficient reason for sitting up much later than usual. There were many questions to answer from everyone, and Nanna and Margaretta appeared to find the smallest details welcome. “How did Monsieur look when he opened the letter? What did he say? What did Mademoiselle say? How large was the fortune? What was the cousin’s name who left it to him?”

“They’re an ancient family,” said Sophia Jane, “and you must be sure to call them De La Roche now.”

“I always thought,” said Margaretta, “that there was something gentlemanly about Monsieur. Odd, you know, but not common.”

“Oh, certainly not common!” replied Nanna.

It seemed strange to Susan to hear that, for she remembered how they had both thought it impossible to invite anyone to meet him at Pegwell Bay.

She was still occupied with wondering about this when the evening post came in. There was a letter for Aunt Hannah, and when she had read it she looked over her glasses at Susan.

“Dear me!” she said. “This is sudden news indeed. Your mother writes from London, my dear, where she arrived yesterday.”

“Am I to go home?” said Susan, getting up from her chair as though ready to start at once.

“Nurse is to fetch you the day after to-morrow,” said Aunt Hannah, looking at the letter again. “Are you in such a great hurry to leave us that you cannot wait till then?”

Susan had grown fond of Aunt Hannah, and did not wish to seem ungrateful. She went and stood by her chair and said earnestly:

“I’m very sorry to go away. I am, indeed; but, of course, I want to see Mother.”

As she spoke she gave a glance at Sophia Jane. “Did she mind? Was she sorry now that the time had come?”

If she were she gave no sign of it. Her face expressed neither surprise, or interest, or sorrow, but was bent closely over some shells she had brought from Pegwell Bay.

“We shall all miss our little Susan,” continued Aunt Hannah, kissing her affectionately.

“That we shall,” said Nanna.

“Dear, good little thing!” said Margaretta.

Surely Sophia Jane would say something too. No. She went on arranging her shells in small heaps, and took no manner of notice.

“And as for Sophia Jane,” continued Aunt Hannah, “she will be completely lost without her companion.”

Susan looked entreatingly at her friend, longing for a word or look of affection, but not a muscle of the small face moved; it might have been made of stone.

“Won’t you be sorry to lose Susan, my dear?” asked Aunt Hannah.

“I suppose so,” was all the answer, with an impatient jerk of the shoulders.

Susan was so hurt at this coldness that she went to bed in low spirits, and thought of it sorrowfully for a long while before she slept. It cast a gloom over the prospect even of going home to think that Sophia Jane did not love her.

She had evidently not forgotten Susan’s behaviour in the past, and did not wish to have her for a friend. It was the more distressing because Susan had made a plan which she thought a very pleasant one, and was anxious to carry out. It was to ask her mother to allow her to have Sophia Jane on a visit in London. She would then be able to show her many things and places she had never seen, and enjoy her enjoyment and surprise. The Tower, the Zoological Gardens, Astley’s, Westminster Abbey, Saint Paul’s, and all the wonders and delights of town. It was a beautiful idea, but if Sophia Jane held aloof in this way it must be given up. And yet it was a most puzzling thing to account for this chilling behaviour, because lately she had been more kind and pleasant than usual, and sometimes almost affectionate. It was useless, however, as Susan now knew, to wonder about Sophia Jane’s moods. They came and they went, and it was, after all, just possible that she would be quite different in the morning.

When the next day came she got up with a feeling that she had a great deal on her hands, for it was her last day at Ramsgate, and she must say good-bye to everyone and let them know she was going away. At breakfast-time something was said about going to make a farewell visit to the Winslows, but Susan thought there were more important matters to be done first.

“I’ll go if I’ve time,” she said seriously; “but you see I have a great deal to do, because this is my last day.”

Her round of acquaintances was not large, but the people who formed it lived at long distances from each other, so that it took up a good deal of time to see them all. There was the periwinkle woman, who sat at the corner of Aunt Hannah’s road; there was the donkey and bath-chair man, and a favourite white donkey; there was Billy Stokes, the sweetmeat man; and Miss Powter, who kept the toy-shop. There was also a certain wrinkled, old Cap’en Jemmy, who walked up and down the parade with a telescope under his arm and said, “A boat yer honour!” to passers-by.

The children had made these acquaintances in their daily walks, and were on friendly terms with them all; so that Susan was not satisfied till she had found each of them and gone through the same form of farewell.

“Good morning!” she said. “I’ve come to say good-bye, because I’m going home to-morrow.”

None of them seemed so much surprised and interested to hear this as she had hoped. They took it with a calm cheerfulness, which was rather disappointing, for it seemed that her departure would not make much difference to anyone in Ramsgate. It was a little depressing. There were now only two more good-byes to be said, and they were to Monsieur and Mademoiselle De La Roche, who arrived in the afternoon and stayed some time receiving congratulations, and talking over the wonderful change in their fortunes with Aunt Hannah. Compared to this, Susan’s going away seemed a very insignificant thing, and though they were both kind, and Mademoiselle invited her to stay some day with her in Paris, she did not feel that it made much impression on them; they soon began to talk again of their own affairs. Susan felt disappointed. She would have liked someone to be very sorry indeed that she was going away from Ramsgate, and, after the visitors had left, she looked round for Sophia Jane, with a lingering hope that she might be in a softer frame of mind. She was not in the room, and Susan hesitated. Should she go and find her, and risk the rebuff which was nearly sure to come, or should she leave her alone? This would be the only chance. To-morrow, in the bustle and hurry of preparation, they would not be a moment alone. She stood considering, and then the desire for sympathy was too strong to be restrained, and she took her way slowly towards the attic. She felt no doubt that Sophia Jane was there, but on the threshold of the half-open door she stopped a minute to get courage, for she was very uncertain as to how she might be received. Perhaps her companion might be angry at being followed. Presently as she stood there she heard a little gasping noise. She listened attentively; it was like someone crying, and struggling to keep it from being heard. Could it be Sophia Jane, and was she really sorry? Much encouraged by the idea Susan hesitated no longer, but marched boldly in. There was Sophia Jane lying flat on the big black box, face downwards, her little frame shaken with stormy sobs, which she tried in vain to control. As Susan entered she raised her head for an instant, and then turned from her to the wall.

Susan perched herself on the end of the box and sat silent for a moment before she said gently:

“What’s the matter?”

“Go away!” sobbed Sophia Jane. “I’m very poorly. My head aches.”

“Let me put wet rags on it,” said Susan eagerly. “I’ve done it often for Freddie. I’ll fetch Aunt Hannah’s eau de Cologne. It’ll soon make it better.”

Sophia Jane turned her head round from the wall and fixed two inflamed blue eyes upon her companion.

“I’m not crying,” she said, “but I’m very poorly. The sun made my eyes water when we were out this afternoon, and my head aches.”

“I’ll soon do it good,” said Susan.

She jumped off the box and ran down-stairs, quickly returning with some eau de Cologne mixed with water in a tumbler, and a clean pocket-handkerchief.

Sophia Jane was quieter now, and lay watching her preparations with some satisfaction, though her chest heaved now and then, and she blinked her red eyelids as though the light hurt them. When the cool bandage was put on her forehead she gave a sigh of comfort, and rested her head on Susan’s lap as she sat behind her on the edge of the box.

“I’ll tell you something,” she said presently.

“I was crying. I’m dreadfully, dreadfully sorry you’re going away.”

“I’m glad you’re sorry,” said Susan, “because I was afraid you didn’t mind.”

“Everyone’s going away but me,” went on Sophia Jane. “Monsieur and Mademoiselle and Gambetta and you. Everyone I like. There’s no one left. I don’t think I can bear it. What shall I do?”

A tear rolled from under the bandage.

“There’ll be Aunt Hannah,” said Susan.

“I only like her pretty well,” said Sophia Jane. “I could easily do without her. I used not to like anyone at all; but now I do, they’re all going away.”

“Well,” said Susan, casting about in her mind for some crumb of comfort, “I shall write to you when I get home, and tell you everything once every week, and you must write to me.”

“You’ll forget,” said Sophia Jane in a miserable voice.

“I never forget,” answered Susan firmly. “And then there’s another thing—I mean to ask Mother to ask you to come and stay with me. Wouldn’t that be fun? Just think of all the things we could do!”

“Do you think she would?” asked Sophia Jane.

She started up so suddenly to look at Susan that the bandage fell over one eye. A little quivering smile appeared round her mouth.

“I think so,” said Susan with caution, “if I wanted it very much.”

“And do you?”

“I’m sure I do,” replied Susan earnestly, and she ventured to kiss the cheek nearest her, wet with tears and eau de Cologne.

It had been Sophia Jane’s custom on such occasions, either to rub off the kiss impatiently or to make a face expressing disgust. This time she did neither; she laid her head down again in Susan’s lap and said quietly:

“I like you very much.”

The words of affection she had wished for had come at last, and few though they were, Susan liked them better than any she had heard since she had been in Ramsgate. And, indeed, they were worth more than many caressing speeches from some people, for Sophia Jane never said more than she meant. Susan felt quite proud and satisfied, now that she knew Sophia Jane really liked her.

And so, on the morrow, when the time really came to say good-bye to Belmont Cottage and everyone in it, it was a comfort to think that perhaps she should soon see her companion again. It was, indeed, the only thing that kept up her spirits at all as she drove away with Nurse, and left the little group gathered round the gate. Aunt Hannah, Nanna, and Margaretta, even the stiff Buskin, had all come out to see the “last of Susan” and wave their farewells, but the person she was most sorry to leave was the once despised Sophia Jane.

Thus they parted; Susan to go back to the busy murmur of the London streets, Sophia Jane to remain within sound of the great sea. Would they meet again? Perhaps, at some future time, they would, but whether they did or not, they had taught each other certain lessons at Ramsgate which it is possible for us all to learn. Only we must open our eyes and take the trouble to study them, for though they lie close round about us we cannot always see them, because we are blinded by pride and vanity, and despise or lightly esteem the very people who could teach them. Then we miss them altogether; and that is a great pity, for they are the best things we can learn in life—Lessons of Self-sacrifice, Humility, and Love.

The End.