[CHAPTER I]
MRS. HOLCROFT TELLS MARIGOLD ABOUT HER AUNTS,
AND READS MISS PAMELA'S LETTER
"MARIGOLD, it is time for the boys to go to bed. I wish you would give them their supper, as I want to get this embroidery finished to-night, if possible."
The speaker was Mrs. Holcroft, a pale-faced, dark-eyed woman of about thirty-five, with a slight figure, and a somewhat nervous manner. She had been six years a widow, and a snowy cap rested on her brown hair—hair that was streaked with white around her temples. Marigold, her little daughter, aged eleven, was seated at a corner of the square table that stood in the middle of the sitting-room, so engrossed in the story-book she was reading that she failed to grasp the sense of her mother's request, and looked up inquiringly.
"What was that you said, mother?" she asked, turning a pair of thoughtful dark eyes upon her mother as she spoke, and carefully marking the place she was reading with a slip of paper before shutting her book,—"Something about the boys wasn't it?"
"Yes, dear. It is their bedtime, and I want you to see about their supper. I am sorry to disturb you, but—"
A slight sigh, and a glance at the work on which she was employed finished the sentence. Mrs. Holcroft added to her scanty means by doing art-needlework for a fashionable West-End shop, and all her spare moments were spent in designing new patterns for her embroideries, or in executing the orders she was fortunate enough to obtain.
"Of course I will see to the boys," Marigold replied cheerfully. "Must that work be finished to-night, mother?"
"Yes, my dear. You know the quarter's rent will be due next week, and we are badly in want of many things."