The missionary working-party prospered and increased, and, by the time Christmas drew near, the number of members had risen to fourteen; quite a large drawer full of "gifts" had been already neatly and carefully made, and the Expenses Fund was almost exhausted! The committee began to consider how it was to be replenished, and hazy ideas of "collecting" (which they dreaded) or else having a little sale of work during the Christmas holidays, formed in their enthusiastic minds.
But they were still only ideas, when, one Saturday afternoon, Lily Howell, who, upon one pretext or another, had waited until all but the quartette had gone, slipped a sealed envelope into Monica's hand, and merely whispering: "Pa told me to give it to you," was gone before the astonished girl could say a word.
The excitement of the committee when they found that the envelope contained a cheque for £10, "To be used for your Chinese folks, and ask for more when you want it," was tremendous.
"How splendid! Now we sha'n't have either to beg, borrow, or steal," cried Olive. "It is a good thing we let Lily come, after all."
And Monica, who remembered the opposition which she had met with upon proposing Lily's name, could not refrain from smiling.
Those were happy days for Monica: her school life was most interesting, and now that she bicycled into Osmington, instead of being dependent upon the pony-trap, she enjoyed the ride to and fro immensely, especially as either one or two of her friends accompanied her most of the way to Carson Rise, on the days that she remained at school until the afternoon, for music or some other extra.
Then the missionary work was a source of great pleasure to her, and her enthusiasm was kept very keen by long letters from Robina Herschel, and an occasional one from Miss Daverel.
Sometimes, when Monica was poring over a missionary magazine, or exercising her ingenuity in making something fresh for the girls to copy at the working-party, her grandmother would tease her by saying she was "missionary mad." But Monica would only look up and smile, knowing that in her heart of hearts the old lady was well-content that her grandchild should seek to help forward, even in the simplest way, the spread of the "good news," which had brought light at eventide to her own dark heart.
And every day was bringing Colonel Beauchamp nearer. Several letters had come from him, but in none of them had he been able, definitely, to say when he would reach England; he hoped, as he had said at first, to spend Christmas Day at home, but it was uncertain. Monica was counting the days, in true school-girl fashion, by marking off on a little calendar each day at its close; and the number had steadily decreased until very few remained to be crossed off now.
She stood before the little calendar on the bedroom wall one night, pencil in hand, and crossed off the twenty-first of December. "Only four more days to Christmas now, and by then, my darling dad will be here. Oh, how I am longing to see him, and tell him everything! I have tried to explain in my letters, but it is so difficult to write just what one feels, and I do want to feel his hand on my head once more, just as he used to do, and hear his dear voice saying, 'God bless my darling child.'"