WHEN Cecil found herself outside the gates of Miss Pinchin's school, she felt exactly like someone on whom the gates of Paradise had been closed. She had had a moment of strong and vigorous hope; this had been changed as quickly to despair. Miss Pinchin would have given her the coveted post, had she been certificated. A girl without certificates was nowhere now in the world of learning. No matter how intelligent she was, no matter how really well informed, she had no chance whatever against the cut-and-dry acquirements which the certificated girl was supposed to possess. Cecil metaphorically wrung her hands.
"What am I to do?" she said to herself. "I know I can teach those girls just splendidly, and because I have not passed the Cambridge Junior and Senior, I am shut away from all chance of getting a really good post. Oh, if I could only go to Redgarth, if only for a year; but there, I fear I must put that completely out of my head. Molly's letter was scarcely reassuring, and even if her father is willing to lend me the money, how am I to manage matters for those dear, troublesome, good-humored, noisy boys of mine?"
Cecil was walking back quickly to the town as these thoughts coursed through her busy brain. She was accustomed to utilize every moment of her time, and anxious and miserable as she felt this morning, these facts did not prevent her accomplishing several little items of necessary housekeeping with directness and dispatch. She returned home in time to hand over materials for a good dinner to Miss Marshall's tender mercies, and then entered her little parlor, sighing more than once as the reflection came to her, that, in all probability, this little home, this poor little haven of refuge, would not long be hers.
The first thing her eyes lighted on as she came into the room was a letter addressed to herself.
"The postman has just brought it, Miss Ross," said the landlady, whisking out of the room as she spoke, and shutting the door after her.
Cecil took up the letter languidly. It bore the London postmark, the writing on the cover was stiff and slanting, and had the tremulous appearance which generally characterizes the writing of the very old. Notwithstanding this, however, it was a careful and well-formed hand. Cecil hastily tore it open, and read the following words:
My Dear Cecil:
It is important that I should see you without delay. Can your brothers spare you for one night? I have made inquiries, and find that you will receive this before noon to-morrow. A train leaves Hazlewick for London at two o'clock. If you take it, you will arrive at Paddington a little before five. Do not lose that train, and come prepared to sleep the night here. I will promise not to deprive your young brothers of your company for more than one night.
Your affectionate old friend,
Mary Lavender.P.S.—I inclose a postal order for traveling expenses. First-class fare; don't forget.
A great flood of color mounted into Cecil's pale cheeks as she read this unlooked-for letter. She thought deeply for a moment, then resolved not to lose a moment in going to see Mrs. Lavender.
"The old lady, in all probability, wants to ask me some questions before writing to Molly's father," she said to herself. "Oh, I must put Redgarth out of my head, but how splendid if I only could go! If it were not for the boys, now; but there, the boys exist, and they are the treasures and joy of my life."