Cousin Becky's champions

by Eleanora H. Stooke

"I'd share my money with him," was the decisive reply.

"Of course you would, Polly," said Roger heartily. "And if I was rich and you were poor I'd go shares with you."

"You see, your aunt cannot do that, because her money is, a great part of it, her husband's," Mrs. Trent reminded them, "and your father would not like to take money from him—except what he earns."

"Did Uncle John ever want to give father some money?" Polly questioned inquisitively.

"N-o-o," her mother was obliged to admit. "But you must remember that your uncle has been very kind to us. When your father lost his money, it was your uncle who came forward and offered him employment in his office; but for that we should have come to want; and you know we often get fruit and vegetables from the Rookery gardens; and you and I, Polly, would have been very shabby before now but for your aunt's gifts of clothes. Don't let us be ungrateful, my dears!"

There was a brief silence. Mrs. Trent had spoken earnestly; and now she bent her head over the stocking she was in the midst of darning to hide the tears which glistened in her eyes. She was a very pretty woman; but though she was only a little over thirty years of age, her brown hair was streaked with white, and she had the appearance of one weighed down with many cares. When she had married, her husband had been a man in a good position as a clay merchant in the flourishing town of Beaworthy. The young couple had lived in a nice house in the suburbs, where the two children had been born; but, owing to heavy trade losses, and the failure of a bank in which Mr. Trent had had a considerable interest, the once prosperous man had been brought to the verge of ruin, and having failed in his business, he had been glad to accept a post as clerk in the office of Mr. Marsh, who had married his sister. Mr. Marsh was a clay merchant, too, but, unlike his brother-in-law, he was a successful trader, and it seemed as though everything he had touched had turned to gold.

Three years had now elapsed since the Trents had removed from their old home to their present abode in Princess Street, where they kept one servant instead of three, and dropped out of touch with many of their former acquaintances, as people do who have known better days. Sometimes Mrs. Marsh called upon her sister-in-law, and the inhabitants of Princess Street would flock to their windows to gaze at the carriage, with its pair of roan horses, drawn up before the Trents' door, and watch brown paper parcels and baskets carried into the house, and poor Mrs. Trent would blame herself for minding that everyone was aware she was indebted to her husband's sister for the clothes she wore and was really thankful to accept, and the surplus fruit and vegetables from her brother-in-law's gardens.

"If only Janie would walk when she comes to call, I should be so much better pleased," she had said to Mr. Trent on one occasion. "Her carriage is out of place in Princess Street." And then she had been sorry she had made the remark, because her husband had looked pained.

Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had only one child, the boy whom Roger had so promptly punished for his cruelty that afternoon. He was spoilt by his parents; and his cousins, up to the present, had seen very little of him, for their invitations to the Rookery had been few and far between, and he had rarely visited them at Princess Street. But during the last few weeks Edgar and Roger had clashed at the Grammar School, which they had attended since Christmas, and they had already had several disagreements, for the former had been brought up to be domineering, and the latter could not brook being dictated to by a boy of his own age.

"I am sorry I hit Edgar," Roger admitted by-and-by, when his temper had had time to cool, "especially before so many people. I'll apologise to him to-morrow, that is, if he doesn't tell Aunt Janie; but I expect he will. He's a rare sneak. Are we going to have tea before father comes home, or shall we wait for him, mother?"