I had, however, made a little venture. We took a work magazine at the vicarage, and something in its pages inspired me to make an effort in designing. I possessed a good many odds and ends of materials, and out of these, I fashioned a lamp-mat in shaded wool and tinsel cord. Crochet was the fashionable work then, and I sent my mat, when finished, to the editor of the magazine. To my delight, an answer soon came. The design was original and pretty, and I was requested to name my terms for it. I asked a guinea, which was promptly sent, and enriched me—in hope as well as pocket.
The mat was not my only success, and I had the happiness of spending half my earnings in little presents for the children, though their parents protested against the expenditure; but they saw it pleased me, and I had my way.
The Midsummer holidays were coming, and I was much exercised in my mind as to how I should spend them. Mary Baxendell would have liked me to go home with her, but her parents were about to join some relatives in a Scotch town, and she was to accompany them.
It did not seem to strike my Uncle James that I might need a temporary home when I returned the five pounds lent by him at Christmas. He took the money, acknowledged it, expressed his pleasure that I was doing so well, announced the advent of another baby in words that told rather of resignation than rejoicing, conveyed the united love of himself, my aunt, and cousins, and there the matter ended.
I tried hard to muster courage to visit my old neighbourhood, and my faithful nurse sent an ill-spelt but loving letter to beg that I would go to the lodge. There was a family of strangers at Birch Hill—nice, kind people, who would very likely invite me to the house when they knew I had lived there. But I decided that I was not strong enough to face the memories that haunted every room at Birch Hill, or to see strangers in my parents' seats. So I declined dear old Hannah's loving invite. Mrs. Goulding also intended me to be her guest, but she had a less desirable inmate in the shape of scarlet fever amongst her children, and was in great trouble. It really seemed that every door was closed upon Lois Anstey.
All at once I bethought myself of a place where I could obtain accommodation. The daughter of a farmer near Birch Hill had married a neighbour's son and gone to live in Lincolnshire. They had taken a small farm and were doing fairly well, but, having no children and a good-sized house, they added to their income by taking lodgers during the summer.
It was to their house I went from Hillstowe to spend my holidays, and it was at Roundtree Farm I passed the third of my six milestones.
[CHAPTER IV.]
HAD I known that Mrs. Jennings had already two lodgers at Roundtree Farm, I would not have gone there, and I told her so.
"Bless you, miss," said she, "you might be here for months and never set eyes on them. Mr. Winn, a broad-shouldered, handsome gentleman, does nothing but hunt bees and butterflies and suchlike. Mr. Marsden is mad after out-a-way plants and flowers. They don't even go a fishing, though, there's lovely trout for the catching. I wish they would, for fish is hard to get so far from a market."