"And, Peggy, if you'd only kep' 'im and given 'im up to the pleece proper, I 'spect your name would have come out in the newspapers; and then what would you have felt like!"
She poured forth her story rather incoherently, but with great pride. To her consternation, Helen turned upon her.
"What name did you say, Peggy? Why it was our Aunt Alicia. Did a letter come? Oh what have you done?"
Joyce began to laugh, and Peggy to cry.
"Please 'm, she looked too tall; and her voice was so gruff."
"Of course it was," said Joyce. "She's an eccentric old lady, Peggy, who is fond of taking us by surprise. Well, what does she say, Helen? Don't look so grave."
Helen held out the letter, which was as follows:—
"DEAR NIECES,—As I find myself within thirty miles of your new abode, I shall give myself the pleasure of coming to stop a night with you. I haven't given you a present for some time, but will wait till I see what you need most in your cottage. Expect me by the 11.30 train.
"Your affectionate aunt,
"ALICIA ALLANDALE."
Joyce read this aloud.
Peggy's face was a study as she listened, and as she understood the enormity of her offence. Holding out a stout but much-bitten black shoe in her hand, she said tragically—