“Well, perhaps so,” admitted Stella, a little grudgingly. “You see, we all want to win it, and as we never seem to have any chances to be brave unless we break the rules, I don’t know what we can do. We talk about it in the dormitory for hours, but no one yet has thought of anything—except the gipsy baby; and that only ended in quarantine for me. I suppose Margot’s told you about that? I have less chance than the others to do anything, because I go home for the week-ends!”
“But mightn’t there be an opportunity at home, perhaps?” suggested Mrs. Fleming.
“Ah!” and Stella shook her flaxen head in a superior way. “But then who’d know about it at school, you see? Unless I told, of course, and that would be rather sneakish, and so it wouldn’t count.”
Mrs. Fleming’s breath was quite taken away by this peculiar view, and she deemed it wise to change the subject. “Tell me about this ‘Little House,’” she said. “The children have mentioned it in their letters, but I expect you know more about it than they do, as you live nearby.”
“Well, it’s like this,” began Stella, delighted to have an audience. “That house was empty till five years ago; it was a biggish kind of cottage, and had been built on the cliff ages ago by an artist, father says. And then suddenly this old man came—I don’t remember it, but mother does. He boarded up all the windows that look this way, though I believe he has one or two left that look over the sea; and he shut himself in!”
“Well, you’d think anyone might do that,” said Mrs. Fleming, “if they wanted to be alone.”
“Yes; but he’s quite different; he’s very old, and he wears a coat like a manservant—with tails, you know; and he only comes out at night, and he never opens his door to anyone; he writes down on a scrap of paper just how much bread and milk and things he wants, and he hardly eats anything; and once——”
“Well?” inquired Mrs. Fleming.
“Well, once he wrote down his orders, they say, on a piece of paper that had a ‘coronet’ on it; did you ever hear of such a thing? And the boy that brought his milk showed it to someone and asked what it meant; and then after that—I don’t know when it was—all the village children used to stand and shout outside his house, and call him ‘My Lord!’ And one day he came out with a stick and chased them away, and called out that he would throw them over the cliff.”
“Serve them right, rude little things!” said Mrs. Fleming decidedly.