"I refused. I do not know if I was right or wrong; but I think, I hope I was right! I could not give you up to them, then. I wanted to train my little girl myself till she should be old enough to remember her mother's teaching. I believe my husband's aunts to be good women, but I could not leave it to them to set your infant feet in the way of truth—that I felt was your mother's privilege, a duty for which I was accountable to God."
Mrs. Holcroft's usually pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, her dark eyes glowed with the light of a great purpose.
"And so I chose to rear you in poverty, to work for you myself, and I have never regretted it. But, latterly, I have known that you ought to have advantages of education that I cannot give you; and so, Marigold, a few days ago I wrote to your father's aunts, and asked them for the sake of the love they once bore their nephew to assist his daughter to obtain that which in the future should enable her to earn her own living. In my pocket is their reply, written by Miss Pamela Holcroft, the younger of the sisters, who is, I have heard, much the sterner and less forgiving of the two!"
"Oh, mother!" Marigold broke in; "how could you ask them?"
Mrs. Holcroft smiled at the indignation in the child's voice as she answered—
"Remember they are your father's aunts, and would willingly, I believe gladly, have adopted you years ago, if I would have permitted it. I think they would have loved you very dearly, Marigold, and you would have had every comfort and luxury that money could supply—sometimes when we have had to go short at home I have wondered if, after all, I acted wisely!"
"Oh yes, yes, mother, be very sure you did! I don't mind being poor, so long as I am with you!"
"We have been happy together; you have been my right hand since you were a little toddling mite who used to insist on dusting the legs of the chairs for me! I do not know what I should have done without you through the dark days after your father's death, and of late years you have become very helpful in many ways. I am not naturally so brave as you, Marigold; you are a true soldier's daughter."
The little girl beamed with pleasure at these words of praise. The remembrance of her father was a dim memory, but she knew he had been an honourable man, an upright, truth-loving Christian gentleman, and her mother always spoke of him with tender affection and pride.
Mrs. Holcroft now took a large, square envelope from her pocket, from which she drew Miss Pamela Holcroft's letter, written in a fine flowing handwriting, and proceeded to read it aloud. It ran as follows:—