"TAKE that—and that—and that, and now go home and tell Aunt Janie I've smacked her dearie! I don't care if she calls and complains of me to mother—it would be like her to do that!" And the angry speaker—Roger Trent, a boy of about nine years of age—turned on his heel, and with head held high and flashing eyes, walked off, his heart beating fast with indignation as his mind dwelt wrathfully on the incident which had caused him to so far lose his temper as to cuff his companion in the open street.

A few minutes previously he had been walking amicably by the side of his cousin, Edgar Marsh, on their way home from school, when the latter had caught up a stone, which he had shied at a terrier with such true aim that it had hit the poor animal in the leg and sent it howling pitifully down the street; whereupon Roger had turned upon his cousin and dealt him several swift blows, for he hated anything like cruelty, and he possessed a fiery temper which often got him into trouble.

"I suppose there'll be no end of a row now," he reflected somewhat ruefully; "but Edgar's as old as I am and quite as big, so it wasn't cowardly to hit him, and he deserved what he got. I wish, though, I'd remembered what mother said, that she hoped I would try to keep the peace with Edgar. But I'm sure if she'd heard that poor little dog howling with pain, she'd have been angry herself; and Edgar could have hit me back if he'd liked—there is no fight in him! I wish he wasn't my cousin; and, oh, how I wish my father wasn't working for his father, then—"

He paused in his reflections, for he had turned down a side street, called Princess Street, and had reached home—a house in the midst of a long row of others, all exactly alike—and there at the sitting-room window were his mother and his sister Polly, watching for him. The angry cloud lifted from his countenance at the sight of the pair, and he smiled and nodded; but his mother had been quick to notice that something had gone wrong, and her first words, when her son entered the sitting-room, were:

"What is amiss, Roger? Have you been in mischief?"

"Why, mother, how sharp you are!" he exclaimed. Then he told her what had occurred, whilst she listened attentively, her face, which was pale and careworn, taking a decidedly anxious expression.

"Oh, Roger, you should not have struck your cousin!" she cried reprovingly when he had concluded his tale. "You really must try to keep your temper under better control, my dear boy."

"But, mother, it was cruel and wicked of Edgar to hit the poor dog," interposed Polly eagerly. "He had no right to throw a stone at it."

"Certainly not. Nevertheless, Roger had no right to hit Edgar. Two wrongs do not make one right."

Polly looked unconvinced. She was a pretty little girl, a year her brother's senior, with fair hair and honest grey eyes.

"I expect Aunt Janie will make a fuss," she observed, "for Edgar's sure to tell her—he's such a little tell-tale—and she always takes his part. That's so unfair. Oh, mother, I can't like Aunt Janie, I can't! I suppose she's kind—oh yes, I know she is, but sometimes I wish she wasn't, and then I shouldn't feel so bad about not liking her more."

And Polly looked down over herself and reflected that she really must be very ungrateful, seeing that she was clothed, at the present moment, in a frock which her mother had made for her from one of her aunt's cast-off gowns. "She isn't a bit like father," she proceeded; "no one would think they were brother and sister, like Roger and me. Oh, mother, if I was a rich lady and Roger had lost all his money and become quite poor, I know what I'd do!"

"Well?" said Mrs. Trent, inquiringly, amused at the little girl's earnestness. "What would you do, then?"

"I'd share my money with him," was the decisive reply.

"Of course you would, Polly," said Roger heartily. "And if I was rich and you were poor I'd go shares with you."

"You see, your aunt cannot do that, because her money is, a great part of it, her husband's," Mrs. Trent reminded them, "and your father would not like to take money from him—except what he earns."

"Did Uncle John ever want to give father some money?" Polly questioned inquisitively.

"N-o-o," her mother was obliged to admit. "But you must remember that your uncle has been very kind to us. When your father lost his money, it was your uncle who came forward and offered him employment in his office; but for that we should have come to want; and you know we often get fruit and vegetables from the Rookery gardens; and you and I, Polly, would have been very shabby before now but for your aunt's gifts of clothes. Don't let us be ungrateful, my dears!"

There was a brief silence. Mrs. Trent had spoken earnestly; and now she bent her head over the stocking she was in the midst of darning to hide the tears which glistened in her eyes. She was a very pretty woman; but though she was only a little over thirty years of age, her brown hair was streaked with white, and she had the appearance of one weighed down with many cares. When she had married, her husband had been a man in a good position as a clay merchant in the flourishing town of Beaworthy. The young couple had lived in a nice house in the suburbs, where the two children had been born; but, owing to heavy trade losses, and the failure of a bank in which Mr. Trent had had a considerable interest, the once prosperous man had been brought to the verge of ruin, and having failed in his business, he had been glad to accept a post as clerk in the office of Mr. Marsh, who had married his sister. Mr. Marsh was a clay merchant, too, but, unlike his brother-in-law, he was a successful trader, and it seemed as though everything he had touched had turned to gold.

Three years had now elapsed since the Trents had removed from their old home to their present abode in Princess Street, where they kept one servant instead of three, and dropped out of touch with many of their former acquaintances, as people do who have known better days. Sometimes Mrs. Marsh called upon her sister-in-law, and the inhabitants of Princess Street would flock to their windows to gaze at the carriage, with its pair of roan horses, drawn up before the Trents' door, and watch brown paper parcels and baskets carried into the house, and poor Mrs. Trent would blame herself for minding that everyone was aware she was indebted to her husband's sister for the clothes she wore and was really thankful to accept, and the surplus fruit and vegetables from her brother-in-law's gardens.

"If only Janie would walk when she comes to call, I should be so much better pleased," she had said to Mr. Trent on one occasion. "Her carriage is out of place in Princess Street." And then she had been sorry she had made the remark, because her husband had looked pained.

Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had only one child, the boy whom Roger had so promptly punished for his cruelty that afternoon. He was spoilt by his parents; and his cousins, up to the present, had seen very little of him, for their invitations to the Rookery had been few and far between, and he had rarely visited them at Princess Street. But during the last few weeks Edgar and Roger had clashed at the Grammar School, which they had attended since Christmas, and they had already had several disagreements, for the former had been brought up to be domineering, and the latter could not brook being dictated to by a boy of his own age.

"I am sorry I hit Edgar," Roger admitted by-and-by, when his temper had had time to cool, "especially before so many people. I'll apologise to him to-morrow, that is, if he doesn't tell Aunt Janie; but I expect he will. He's a rare sneak. Are we going to have tea before father comes home, or shall we wait for him, mother?"

"We will wait for him, my dear. He said he hoped to be back by half-past five."

"Oh, that's jolly!" Roger exclaimed, his countenance brightening. "We must keep up the fire, for it's awfully cold!" And he took up the coal shovel.

"I hope it will soon get warmer," Mrs. Trent remarked, "but I suppose we cannot expect it to do so in February. 'When the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,'" she quoted with rather a rueful smile.

"The coal heap's getting very low," announced Polly, as she watched her brother putting coals on the fire, "I peeped in to-day. I suppose they don't mind how much coal they use at the Rookery. Mother, it doesn't seem fair that Uncle John and Aunt Janie should be so rich when we are so poor. I don't believe they're any better than we are."

"Oh, hush, Polly!" cried Mrs. Trent. "You mustn't speak like that. Think of all our blessings. Sometimes I feel a very rich woman indeed."

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Roger in amazement.

"Rich because I have a good husband and children who give me a wealth of love," Mrs. Trent went on to explain with a smile which made her face look very pretty and young. "I wouldn't change places with any woman I know."

The boy threw his arms around her neck and kissed her with tender affection, for he was deeply attached to his mother, whilst Polly remarked:

"I'm glad you're like yourself, mother; I wouldn't have you like Aunt Janie for the world. Good gracious, here she is!" she exclaimed excitedly, rushing to the window as a carriage stopped at the door. "Yes, she's getting out; and oh, Roger, she does look so cross!"

"She's coming to complain about me, for certain," said Roger with a sigh of resignation, though he looked somewhat alarmed. He felt glad that he had confessed all that had occurred to his mother, and wondered what punishment his aunt would demand to have meted out to him for his treatment of her son.

"Well, of all the mean, spiteful boys I ever heard of, Edgar is the worst," declared Polly in an indignant whisper to her brother, as with a rustling of silken skirts Mrs. Marsh swept into the room. "I hope, Roger, that you hit him hard—he deserved it, I'm sure."

[CHAPTER II]

WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

Mrs. Marsh was a tall, handsome woman, several years the senior of her sister-in-law, whom she greeted in a manner which, though intended to be kindly, was more than a little patronising. She kissed her niece and nephew, and then seated herself in an easy chair near the fire, whilst the children withdrew to the window to watch for their father's arrival.

"I don't believe she has come to complain of you, Roger," whispered Polly, "for she called you 'my dear.'"

Roger nodded, intensely relieved in mind. He was looking at his aunt's carriage a trifle enviously, and thinking he would like the situation of coachman so as to drive the beautiful horses he so greatly admired. But when he said so to Polly, she appeared indignant at the idea, and bade him be quiet and listen to what Aunt Janie had to say.

"No, thank you, Mary," Mrs. Marsh replied, in response to her sister-in-law's offer of a cup of tea. "I merely called to see Martin—" Martin was Mr. Trent—"to tell him about a letter I've received from Cousin Becky. You've heard of her, of course—Rebecca Trent, a first cousin of father's?"

"Oh yes!" answered Mrs. Trent, with a show of keen interest. "Martin was telling the children about her the other day, and wondering what had become of her. He will be so glad to hear you have heard from her. She must be an old woman now?"

"Close on seventy. She used to visit at our house when Martin and I were about the age of Polly and Roger; but she always made her home with her brother, who had been left a widower with a young family. In fact, she brought up his children. In the letter I have to-day had from her, she informs me that her brother is dead, and that now she is all alone."

"How sad!" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with ready sympathy, whilst Polly and Roger exchanged concerned glances. "Poor soul! But I suppose she has means to provide herself with another home?"

"I should say that is very doubtful. Cousin Becky never had any property, as far as I know, and it is certain her brother could do nothing towards making a provision for her in case she survived him, for he lived on his pension—he was a retired naval officer, as doubtless Martin has told you—and had very little private property. Becky ought to have gone into a situation when she was young, instead of living with her brother, then perhaps she would have been able to make some provision for her old age—I've written and told her so."

Mrs. Marsh paused, for at that moment the sitting-room door opened to admit her brother. Mr. Trent was tall, and very like his sister in features, but there the resemblance between the two ended, for the expression of his countenance was good-humoured, and his many troubles had failed to embitter him, for he owned a hopeful disposition and one of the kindest hearts in the world, whereas Mrs. Marsh, in spite of her air of prosperity, looked anything but a contented woman.

"Oh, father, Aunt Janie has had a letter from Cousin Becky!" cried Polly, eager to be first with the news.

"Well, I am glad," Mr. Trent declared heartily, as selected a chair by his sister's side and, sitting down, took the letter which she had drawn from her pocket and now offered to him. "You and I were very fond of her when we were youngsters, Janie, and she was very good to us, I remember. What has the dear old body to say for herself?"

"You had better see!" Mrs. Marsh responded dryly.

Thus advised, Mr. Trent opened the letter and read aloud as follows:—

"My DEAR JANIE,—"
"It is many years since you and I met, but there is still a warm corner in my heart for the little girl and boy who were such firm friends of mine in those days when I used to visit at their home; and I hope they may have some kindly remembrances of 'Cousin Becky'—which hope impels me to write to you now. Dear Janie, I am left all alone. A few months since my dear brother died after a long illness; and his three children are all married and far away. The boy is settled in New Zealand, and the two girls are in India—one is married to an officer in the Army, the other to an engineer. My nephew has offered me a home, but I am too old to be transplanted to the other side of the world, so I have declined his offer, and now propose to visit Beaworthy with the idea of settling there. I have pleasant recollections of the place, and as you and Martin are my only relations in England, I feel I should like to pass my remaining days near you. Could you recommend me to lodgings, or to any nice family who would take a boarder? I have no doubt you can assist me in this matter, and I shall eagerly await your reply."
"With my love to Martin and yourself, and hoping soon to see you both and to make the acquaintance of your husband and boy,"
"I am, my dear Janie,"
"Your affectionate cousin,"
"Rebecca Trent."

"I suppose you've written and asked her to visit you, Janie," remarked Mr. Trent as he returned the letter to his sister.

"I have done no such thing, Martin. Of course, I see that is what she expected—I can read between the lines, so to speak—but I talked the matter over with John, and we came to the conclusion that it would be wiser not to do so; if we once gave her a footing at the Rookery we might find a difficulty in getting rid of her, and—and—"

Mrs. Marsh paused and coloured as she met her brother's astonished eyes. There was a long, awkward silence, which Mrs. Trent at length broke by remarking gently:

"It is very sad to be old and poor, and especially for one who has led a noble and self-sacrificing life—"

"She ought to have considered herself," Mrs. Marsh broke in tartly, "and so I've reminded her. I've written and advised her to stay where she is, in London; I suppose she must have some friends there. I think she would be foolish to come to Beaworthy, anyway. Well, I really must go; I only came to show you Cousin Becky's letter, Martin. Good-bye, children. Good-bye, Mary. You're looking very pale, you ought to get out more." And Mrs. Marsh rustled out of the room followed by her brother.

The mother and children stood at the window and watched Mr. Trent assist his sister into the carriage and wrap the fur rug around her.

"Why doesn't she take you for a drive with her, sometimes, mother?" said Polly in a tone of dissatisfaction. She regarded her mother attentively as she spoke, and a pang of pain shot through her loving heart as she saw that Mrs. Trent was indeed very pale. "It's all very well to say you ought to get out more, but—oh, I wish we had a carriage for you to drive out in when the roads and streets are muddy, and—"

"Don't let your father hear you say anything like that," Mrs. Trent interposed hurriedly. "You need not trouble because I am pale—I always am, you know. There! Your aunt's gone; and now run and tell Louisa to bring in tea."

Polly obeyed, and by the time Louisa—the maid-of-all-work—had done her bidding, Mr. Trent had changed his coat for the older one he always wore at home in the evenings, and had returned to the sitting-room. During the meal which followed, Roger told his father how he had feared his aunt had come on another errand; and though Mr. Trent chided his son for having lost his temper and struck his cousin, he sympathised with the indignation which had caused him to act so impetuously.

"I should be sorry for you to be really at enmity with Edgar," he said gravely, "so I hope you will try to make peace with him to-morrow. His cruelty was probably the result of thoughtlessness, but it ought to be checked."

"Aunt Janie never thinks he does wrong," declared Polly. "And, oh, father, don't you consider it's very strange she doesn't want Cousin Becky to visit her?" she added eagerly.

"Yes, Polly, I do," Mr. Trent admitted with a glance at his wife. "I only wish we were better off so that we could ask Cousin Becky here, but I suppose it's not to be thought of under present circumstances."

"Why not, father?" asked Roger. "Do you think she would not like to come—that she would not like our house?"

"No. I am sure she would not mind our house being small and shabby, and in a street, for she has had to rough it in her day; but—" Mr. Trent paused and glanced at his wife again.

"We have no spare room," she remarked dubiously, "only that little attic next to Louisa's; we could not put a visitor there."

"Cousin Becky could have my room—it's rather small, of course, but it's very comfortable and sunny—and I'd go up in the attic," said Polly, whilst her father nodded approval.

"But, Martin, do you think she would be satisfied with our mode of living?" questioned Mrs. Trent. "I should like to write and ask her to come and stay with us until she has made her plans for the future, because she was kind to you years ago, but—"

"And now she is old and poor, Mary, I should like to be kind to her," broke in Mr. Trent, "especially as Janie—but never mind that! Janie doesn't realise what it is to be without money and friends, so we mustn't blame her if she appears a little hard. Cousin Becky must be very friendless, I fancy, or she wouldn't think of coming to Beaworthy. There are plenty of people who would want her to be their guests if she was rich, but she is doubtless as poor as ourselves. One more at our table surely cannot make much difference—eh, Mary?"

The children regarded their mother with expectant eyes, rather marvelling at the hesitancy they read in her face, for they were not troubled by thoughts of ways and means. A visitor in the house would have all the charm of novelty for them, and their father had told them so many reminiscences of Cousin Becky that they longed to see her.

"She is awfully nice, isn't she, father?" questioned Roger.

"She used to be very nice, my son, and I don't suppose she has much altered with age. She was never a fussy old maid, and she loved children dearly."

"Oh, mother, do write and ask her to come!" pleaded the little boy coaxingly.

"I certainly will, as you all seem to desire it so much," Mrs. Trent agreed with a smile, "and if she does come we will do our best to make her as comfortable and happy with us as possible. I only hesitated to invite her because I could not quite see how we were to manage; but since Polly is willing to give up her room, and your father thinks Cousin Becky will be satisfied with our humble fare—well, then, I'll write to-night."

Accordingly, as soon as tea was over, Mrs. Trent wrote the letter, and Roger ran out and posted it; and there was a general sense of satisfaction that the right thing had been done. In the course of a few days Cousin Becky's reply was received. It was a brief, grateful note of thanks and acceptance of the invitation, saying the writer hoped to be with her cousins in Princess Street the following week.

[CHAPTER III]

AT THE ROOKERY

"Is that you, Edgar, darling? Come to the fire and warm yourself. It's snowing, isn't it?"

"Yes, mother. I hope we shall have a good downfall. If it snows like this all through the night we shall be able to make a snow man in the playground to-morrow. Won't that be jolly?"

It was an afternoon several days subsequent to the one on which Mrs. Marsh had called on her relatives in Princess Street; and the scene was the spacious drawing-room at the Rookery, which, with a big coal fire burning in the grate, and its handsome, well-chosen furniture, was a picture of comfort, not to say luxury. Mrs. Marsh sat near the fireplace, a small table bearing tea-things, a plate of thin bread and butter, and part of a rich cake in a silver cake-basket at her side. She had been entertaining callers, but they had left early on account of the snowstorm which had been threatening. Edgar, who had just returned from school, flung his satchel of lesson-books into a corner of the room, and, advancing to the tea-table, helped himself to a hunk of cake. His mother watched him with an indulgent smile; she was naturally very proud and fond of her son, who was indeed a very nice-looking little lad, with his bright blue eyes, fresh complexion, and curly, brown hair.

"Are your feet wet, dearie?" she inquired anxiously, as she poured him out a cup of tea.

"No," he answered untruthfully, for he knew they were. He sat down and tucked his feet out of sight under the chair. "Give me plenty of cream and sugar, please, mother," he said. "This is a very good cake."

"Yes; but had you not better eat some bread and butter with it? It is very rich."

He paid no heed to her suggestion, however, and there was silence for a few minutes till he cut himself a second slice of cake as large as the first.

"My dear child—" began Mrs. Marsh expostulatingly; but Edgar interrupted her:

"Oh, mother, don't fuss!"

"I merely speak for your good, my darling, I—"

"I do wish you wouldn't keep on calling me 'dearie' and 'darling' and names of that sort; it's so silly, just as though I was a baby, and it makes people laugh, and I hate being laughed at!" The boy spoke petulantly with deepening colour, but his eyes drooped beneath his mother's reproachful glance. "I don't believe Roger's mother would be so foolish," he added, "and Roger says you treat me as though I was a girl."

Mrs. Marsh looked both hurt and angry, but she made no response. Her affection for her son showed itself in words of exaggerated endearment, and he was now of an age to greatly dislike being made to appear ridiculous. It had been at his father's wish that he had been entered as a pupil at the Grammar School; Mrs. Marsh had wanted to have him educated by a tutor at home, but her husband had been too wise to listen to her views on the point of their son's education. Edgar should go to a public school, he had firmly declared, the boy would soon find his level there; and that he was certainly doing, the process proving rather a humbling one. Master Edgar Marsh was not quite such an important person in his own estimation to-day as he had been at the commencement of the school only a few weeks previously.

"I walked as far as the corner of Princess Street with Roger this afternoon," Edgar informed his mother by-and-by. "I should not like to live where he does, I told him so."

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Marsh curiously.

"He didn't say anything, but he got very red and looked angry. He very soon gets angry, you know, and I don't think he liked what I said."

"I thought you told me the other day that you didn't care for Roger, and that you never meant to speak to him again," Mrs. Marsh observed with a slight smile.

"Oh," the little boy exclaimed, appearing somewhat confused, "that was because he hit me; but—but it was partly my fault for—never mind about that! Afterwards he said he was sorry, and we've been better friends since. Roger's all right when you come to know him."

"I'm glad to hear that, because he's your cousin, and though, unfortunately for him, his position in life will be very different from yours, I shouldn't like you to quarrel with him. Your Uncle Martin and I were devoted to each other when we were children; indeed, I've always been much attached to my brother, and I've always made it my first duty to be kind to his family."

"It must be very cold travelling to-day," Edgar remarked, glancing out of the window at the falling snow. "Is it a long journey from London to Beaworthy, mother?"

"Yes; do you know anyone who is making it?"

"I was thinking of Cousin Becky." "Cousin Becky? What do you mean? She's not coming here. I never invited her."

"No. But she's coming to stay with Uncle Martin and Aunt Mary. Didn't you know it, mother? Why, I could have told you that days ago!"

"Then, pray, why didn't you?"

"I never thought of it. Roger told me, and of course I thought you knew. She's coming to-night. Roger's going to the station with Uncle Martin to meet her at seven o'clock and she's to have Polly's room."

"And what's to become of Polly?"

"She's going to sleep in the attic."

"The idea! Mary must be crazy to upset her arrangements for an old woman she has never seen in her life, one in whom she can have no possible interest."

"Roger says Cousin Becky is very poor," Edgar observed thoughtfully. "It must be dreadful to be poor, mother, mustn't it?"

"Yes," she acknowledged, surprised at the unusual gravity of her son's face.

"That's why they invited Cousin Becky to Princess Street," Edgar proceeded, "because she's poor and lonely. Roger says now Cousin Becky's brother is dead she hasn't even a home, and no one wants her—you know you didn't, mother."

"But to burden themselves with an old woman," Mrs. Marsh was commencing, when the keen, questioning gaze with which her little boy was regarding her caused her to break off and leave her sentence unfinished.

"It's so odd you didn't want Cousin Becky here," he said. "I can't think why you didn't, because we've lots of spare rooms, and we're always having visitors. Don't you like Cousin Becky, mother?"

"I have not seen her for many years," was the evasive reply. "Will you have another cup of tea, Edgar? No, I will not allow you to have any more cake; you will make yourself ill."

"Give me just a tiny piece, mother. I'm hungry still."

"Then have some bread and butter."

"No," pouted the spoilt child, "I won't have anything more to eat if I can't have cake."

It ended in his being allowed another slice, and whilst he was eating it, his father, a short, bald, middle-aged man, entered the room, and came up to the fire, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold.

"We're going to have a heavy fall of snow if I'm not much mistaken," he said. "You'll like that, eh, Edgar? I remember when I was your age there was nothing I liked better than a snowballing match with my school-fellows. Rare fun we used to have."

"Fancy, John, Cousin Becky is coming to Beaworthy after all," Mrs. Marsh informed him. "She's going to stay with Martin. Edgar heard from Roger that she is expected to-night."

"Well, I suppose your brother knows what he is about," Mr. Marsh replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You'll have to ask the old lady to spend a day with you, Janie."

"And ask Aunt Mary, too," said Edgar eagerly; "I like Aunt Mary. But don't have Polly, mother."

"Why not?" inquired Mr. Marsh, looking amused.

"She's such a cheeky little girl," the boy replied, recalling how on one of the rare occasions when he had taken tea with his cousins at their home, Polly had nick-named him "tell-tale" because he had threatened to inform his mother of something which had happened to displease him. He knew better than to do that now, but he seldom encountered Polly without she addressed him as "tell-tale."

"Edgar, your boots are wet!" cried Mrs. Marsh as, in an unwary moment, the little boy drew his feet out from under the chair. "I can see the water oozing out of the leather. Go and change them at once, or you'll catch a terrible cold. How could you say they were not wet when you must have known differently? You ought to be ashamed to be so untruthful."

Edgar was in no wise disconcerted by this rebuke; but he left the drawing-room and went upstairs to his own room, where he discarded his snow-sodden boots for his slippers, and then stood at the window looking out into the garden, which was separated from the high road by tall elm trees, where the rooks built their nests every spring. The snow was falling very fast now, covering the world with a spotless mantle of white; and Edgar's mind reverted to the visitor whom his cousins expected to welcome to their home that night.

"I suppose mother thought she'd be in the way if she came here," he reflected shrewdly, "but I should say she'll be much more in the way in Uncle Martin's poky little house. It's really very kind of Aunt Mary to have her. Roger says his mother is always kind, and that we all ought to try to be—for Jesus' sake, because He loves every living thing, even animals. I suppose that's true, it's in the Bible about His noticing if a sparrow falls, so it must be, but I never thought much of it till Roger spoke to me about it the day after I'd hit that dog. I didn't mean to hurt it—I only meant to frighten it; I suppose it was cowardly. Well, I won't be unkind to an animal again; and I'm glad I didn't make a fuss about Roger's having struck me, especially as he was sorry afterwards."

It was cold in his bedroom, so in a short while the little boy went downstairs. In the hall he encountered Titters, his mother's favourite Persian cat; but when—mindful of his resolution to be kind to animals in future—he essayed to stroke her, she tried to escape from him, and arched her back and raised her fur in anything but a friendly fashion. Truth to tell, he had been in the habit of teasing her, and she consequently mistrusted his intentions. However, he caught her, picked her up, and was carrying her into the drawing-room in his arms when she suddenly gave him a vicious scratch on the cheek, whereupon he dropped her with a cry of mingled anger and pain.

"See what Titters has done to me, mother!" he exclaimed as he entered the drawing-room.

"What a nasty scratch!" Mrs. Marsh said. "But you should not have teased the poor creature, Edgar."

"I was not teasing her, mother."

"Now, my dear, I know better than that. How can you tell me such a naughty story? I do wish you would learn to speak the truth. You are always teasing Titters—I suppose that's only natural as you're a boy—so you need not pretend you were not doing so just now."

Edgar did not argue the point, but he regarded his mother with an injured air which only made her laugh. He was annoyed that she did not believe him, forgetful that not long before he had told her an untruth about his boots, and that not without cause had he gained the reputation of a perverter of the truth.

[CHAPTER IV]

COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

"Isn't it nearly time for you to start, father?" asked Polly, turning from the window out of which, with her face pressed close to the glass, she had been watching the falling snow, and glancing at Mr. Trent, who, during the half-hour which had elapsed since the family had arisen from the tea-table, had been quietly reading the newspaper.

"Very nearly, my dear," he answered, raising his eyes to the clock on the mantelpiece, and then fixing them on his newspaper again.

"I believe the clock's rather slow, father, and it will take you quite quarter of an hour walking to the station. It's half-past six."

"And Cousin Becky's train is not due to arrive till ten minutes past seven, so there's plenty of time. Where is Roger?"

"Gone to put on his boots, father. Don't you think you had better put on yours?"

Mr. Trent laughed as he laid aside his newspaper. "I see you will not be satisfied till I am gone," he remarked. "Fetch my boots, there's a good girl."

Ten minutes later Mr. Trent and Roger were putting on their overcoats in the hall, preparatory to braving the snowstorm. The latter was quite as anxious to start for the station as Polly was to send him off. In fact, both children were much excited about their expected guest.

"You won't be able to wear this much longer," Polly observed, as she assisted her brother into his overcoat, which had become most uncomfortably tight for him. She buttoned it across his chest with some difficulty, adding, "You look like a trussed fowl."

"He has grown so much this winter," said Mrs. Trent, overhearing Polly's unflattering remark on her brother's appearance as she came downstairs. "I wish he could have a new overcoat, but—" She paused with a faint sigh, and Roger said quickly:

"Oh, this one will last me a long time yet, and I don't in the least mind how I look. It's a good warm old coat."

"That's right, Roger, never run down an old friend, especially one that's served you well," said Mr. Trent, at which they all laughed; for, poor though they were and obliged to practise many economies, they were a lighthearted family and happy amongst themselves.

"Surely you are very early in starting for the station," said Mrs. Trent. "There is half an hour before the train is due."

"Yes; but Polly is anxious to get us off," her husband returned, with a smiling glance at his little daughter, "and there's sure to be a good fire in the waiting-room at the station if we have long to wait. I shall not be surprised if the train is late to-night, the snowstorm will probably delay it a little."

"It's snowing very fast," announced Roger, as he opened the door and stepped into the street, followed by his father. "I believe it's inches deep already."

"We must keep up a good fire in the sitting-room, for Cousin Becky is sure to arrive very cold," said Mrs. Trent as she closed the front door. "I wish there was a fireplace in your bedroom, Polly, but the oil-stove has made it feel very warm and comfortable."

The little girl ran upstairs to the room she had vacated for Cousin Becky. A heating stove with a crimson glass shade stood on the floor, and threw a rosy glow around. The apartment was small and plainly furnished, but it looked very cosy, and Polly thought their expected visitor would be very hard to please if she was not satisfied with such a nice little room. She said something of the kind when she joined her mother downstairs a few minutes later, and Mrs. Trent smiled, but made no response. She was as curious as her children to see Cousin Becky, and not a little anxious as well. How the hands of the clock seemed to drag as Polly watched them! Seven o'clock struck, and nearly another hour paced before a cab drew up before the house. Then mother and daughter hastened into the hall, and the former flung open wide the door, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Here she is, Mary!" cried Mr. Trent, as he sprang out of the cab and assisted a little lady to alight. He led her immediately into the house, whilst Roger followed labouring under a bundle of wraps and a rug. "Here she is," he repeated, "almost frozen with cold, I believe. Becky, this is my wife, and this is my little maid, Polly. Go into the sitting-room, out of the draught, whilst I see to the luggage."

Not a word had the stranger spoken yet but she had taken Mrs. Trent's outstretched hand and warmly returned the kiss which the latter had given her; then she had kissed Polly, too, and now she allowed herself to be led into the sitting-room and established in the big, leather-covered easy chair by the fire.

"How good you all are to me!" she exclaimed at length with a quick breath, which sounded very like a sob, as she took off her thick veil, revealing a countenance which, though plain, was redeemed from insignificance by a pair of bright, observant dark eyes—wonderfully soft eyes they were at the present moment, for they smiled through a mist of tears. "Why, you might have known me all your lives by the warmth of your greetings.'"

"I have heard a great deal of you from my husband," Mrs. Trent told her. "You do not seem a stranger at all."

"I am pleased to hear that. What a glorious fire! A good fire is always such a welcome, I think. And what a cosy room!" And the bright, dark eyes wandered around the apartment with its worn Brussels carpet and well-used furniture, with appreciation in their gaze.

"I believe you will find the house comfortable, though small, and—I'm afraid—rather shabby," Mrs. Trent replied.

"It is a home," Cousin Becky declared with a pleased nod. "I've been in many large, handsomely-furnished houses that have never been that. Well," she said, turning her glance upon Polly, who had been watching her intently, "do you think you will like me, my dear?"

"Yes," Polly responded with a smile, by no means abashed at this direct question. "I am sure I shall. But you are not a bit like what I expected."

"Indeed! What did you expect?"

"I thought you would look much older," the little girl candidly admitted.

"I'm nearly seventy, my dear, and that's a good age. But I don't feel old, and I cannot have changed a great deal of late years—except that my hair has grown white—for your father recognised me the minute he saw me on the platform."

At that moment Mr. Trent appeared upon the scene, followed by Roger. They had been helping to take their visitor's luggage upstairs; and Mrs. Trent now suggested that Cousin Becky should go to her room and remove her travelling things, by which time she would be glad of some tea.

"What do you think of her, Polly?" asked Roger, as soon as their mother and Cousin Becky had gone upstairs together.

"I think she looks very nice and kind," was the prompt reply; "but what a little thing she is, Roger! Father, you never told us that."

In truth, Miss Trent was a very little lady, with a slight figure which was wonderfully upright and agile for one her age. When she returned to the sitting-room, Roger pulled the easy chair nearer the fire for her, and Polly placed a cushion behind her shoulders, and she looked at them both with a very tender light shining in her dark eyes.

"Thank you, my dears," she said with the smile which made her plain face look almost beautiful. "I will take the easy chair to-night as I am weary after my journey, but usually I am not so indulgent to myself. Roger, you are very like what your father used to be at your age."

"And do you think I am like Aunt Janie?" asked Polly, veiled anxiety in her tone.

"Slightly, perhaps; but you are more like your mother," was the decided reply.

"Oh, I am glad to hear you say that!" Polly cried delightedly. "I would rather not be like Aunt Janie at all; though everyone says she is very handsome," she added meditatively.

"Polly does not much care for Aunt Janie," Roger explained; "but she's very nice in her way. And Uncle John's very nice, too, but we don't see much of him. Oh, here's Louisa with tea—"

"Which I am sure Cousin Becky must be greatly in need of," Mrs. Trent interposed, not sorry of this opportunity of changing the conversation, "so hush your chatter, children, for a while, and let her take her meal in peace."

"I love listening to their chatter," Cousin Becky said. She did full justice to the chop which had been cooked for her and enjoyed her tea; and afterwards they all sat round the fire, and the children listened whilst their elders conversed about people and places they only knew by name. Then by-and-by Cousin Becky spoke of her brother's death, and her own forlorn condition.

"I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your letter, my dear," she said to Mrs. Trent. "I considered it was especially kind of you to invite me to visit you as you had never seen me in your life."

"Father wanted you to come, and so did Polly and I," Roger informed her frankly, "but mother was afraid—" He paused in sudden confusion.

"Afraid you might not be satisfied with our mode of living, Becky," Mr. Trent said with a smile, whilst his wife shook her head at him reproachfully.

"The idea!" cried Cousin Becky with a laugh.

"I told her you had had to rough it in your day," Mr. Trent proceeded, "and that you were not a fussy old maid. You see we're living in a small way, and we've had reverses of fortune, as no doubt you have heard, but I don't think we're a discontented family, and we make the best of things—eh, my dear?" he questioned, turning to his wife.

"Yes," she answered, "or, at any rate, we try to do so. Children, I think it is time for you to say good-night; it is long past your usual bed-time."

"I wonder who put those lovely snowdrops in the vase on the dressing-table in my room," said Cousin Becky, as the young people rose obediently to retire for the night.

"Roger did," replied Polly, "he bought them on purpose for you. Do you like them?"

"Indeed I do. Thank you, Roger, so much; it was a most kindly thought which prompted you to get them for me."

The little boy blushed with pleasure, for it was nice to know the flowers were appreciated, and he had been wondering if Cousin Becky had noticed them. After the children had said good-night and left the room, they stood a few minutes in the hall, discussing their visitor in whispers.

"She's awfully jolly," Roger said decidedly, "and she seemed very pleased that I was at the station to meet her with father."

"I like her," Polly answered. "It must be very bad to be alone in the world if you're poor," she continued thoughtfully. "Did you see the tears in her eyes when she talked of her brother and said she had no home now?"

"Yes," assented Roger; "but she didn't say anything about being poor."

"No, but we know she is, from what Aunt Janie said. If she had been rich she'd have been invited to stay at the Rookery." Polly was a sharp little girl, and often surprised her elders by the clearness of her mental sight. "I'm glad she's come here instead," she added heartily, "for we should not see much of her if she was Aunt Janie's visitor."

"I expect not," agreed Roger. "Edgar says he doesn't like Princess Street, and I suppose Aunt Janie doesn't either. I don't mind, do you?"

Polly declared she did not, but her heart was hot with indignation; for she realised, more clearly than did her brother, that Aunt Janie despised their home.

[CHAPTER V]

AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

"Oh, I say, Roger, do wait for me a moment! What a tremendous hurry you're in! I want to speak to you."

Roger Trent paused to allow the speaker—Edgar Marsh—to come up to him. It was nearly five o'clock on the afternoon subsequent to the night of Cousin Becky's arrival at Beaworthy, and the cousins were later than usual in returning from school, as they had lingered in the playground—a large yard surrounded by high walls at the back of the Grammar School building, which was situated in one of the principal streets of the town—to enjoy a good game of snowballing. Several inches of snow had fallen during the night, but the morning had dawned clear and fine; there had been only a very slight thaw, and now the air was keen and betokened frost.

"I'm in rather a hurry, because we have tea at five o'clock and mother will wonder what's become of me if I'm not home by then," Roger explained, as his cousin joined him and they walked on side by side.

"What a splendid game we've had, haven't we? I believe it's going to freeze, and if it does the streets will be as slippery as glass to-morrow."

"So much the better, then we shall be able to make some slides. I don't mind the cold, do you? But why don't you do up your coat."

"Because it's so uncomfortable if I do; it's too tight for me, I've grown out of it."

"You ought to have a new one; it's awfully shabby."

Roger laughed at the critical way in which Edgar was surveying him, but his colour deepened as he said:

"I shan't have a new one till another winter, that's certain, and perhaps not then; it will all depend—"

"Depend upon what?" asked Edgar inquisitively.

"Upon whether father can afford to buy me one or not," was the frank response.

Edgar was silent for a few moments. Accustomed to possess everything that money could buy, it seemed very dreadful to him that his cousin should not be well clothed. He reflected that Roger and he were much the same height and size, and determined to ask his mother for permission to present him with one of his own overcoats.

"It must be horrid to be poor like that," he remarked; "but, never mind, Roger, I'll see you have another overcoat soon." This was said with a slightly patronising air, though it was kindly meant.

"What do you mean?" Roger demanded quickly.

"I'll give you one of mine."

"I won't have it. I don't want it. I'd rather wear my old one." Roger's tone was distinctly ungrateful, and he appeared vexed. "You'd better mind your own business, Edgar, and let me mind mine."

Edgar looked considerably taken aback. He saw he had annoyed his companion, but he had not the faintest idea how he had done so. However, he was wise enough to let the matter drop.

"Did Cousin Becky come last night?" he inquired. "Mother'll be sure to ask me when I get home."

"She arrived by the ten minutes past seven train," Roger replied. "Father and I met her at the station—the train was more than half an hour late—and we drove home in a cab. I enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed what?"

"The drive."

"Oh!" Edgar exclaimed rather contemptuously. "Tell me what Cousin Becky's like."

"She's very small, and her hair is quite white, and she has very dark eyes. Polly and I think we shall like her."

"Will she stay long?"

"I don't know. Mother asked her for a few weeks."

The boys had reached the corner of Princess Street now, and were about to separate when Edgar impulsively caught up a handful of snow and flung it in his companion's face. Roger had not expected this, but he laughed and promptly returned the compliment, and soon they were engaged in a smart game of snowballing, in which a couple of errand boys who happened to be passing, joined. By-and-by Roger unfortunately slipped and fell full length on the sloppy ground; but he picked himself up, unhurt, though very wet and dirty, and returned to the battle. The game would have lasted much longer than it did, had not a policeman come round the corner upon the combatants and promptly dispersed them.

Of course, Roger was late for tea, for, upon reaching home, he found it was absolutely necessary to change his clothes. It was little wonder that Louisa grumbled when he marched into the kitchen, after having put on a dry suit, bearing his wet garments, which he begged her to dry and clean for him in time for him to wear next day. "Of all the thoughtless boys I ever knew, I do believe you are the worst, Master Roger," she said emphatically as she stuffed paper into his dripping boots to prevent their shrinking. "You'll soon have no clothes to wear, and what will you do then?" As the little boy offered no solution to this problem, she continued in the same scolding tone, "I don't know what the mistress will say when she sees your second-best suit in this terrible state. Well, leave the things here, I'll try to get them dry and do my best with them, for it's certain you can't go to school to-morrow looking such a sight as that!" And a smile broke upon her countenance as her eyes travelled over his figure. He had been obliged to don a much-worn suit, darned at the knees and elbows, and too small for him every way.

"It's very kind of you, Louisa," he said gratefully, "I'll do you a good turn some day."

"Will you, Master Roger? Well, I believe you would if you could, so I'll take the will for the deed. Boys will be boys, I suppose, and I daresay your clothes are not really much damaged after all."

After that Roger left the kitchen and went into the sitting-room. He apologised to his mother for being late, and drank his luke-warm tea and ate several slices of thick bread and butter with relish. Cousin Becky occupied the seat at his mother's right hand, and Polly sat opposite. Mr. Trent was not present, for he did not, as a rule, leave the office till six o'clock.

"I have not been outside the door all day," Polly remarked in a slightly desponding tone, after she had listened to her brother's account of the fun he and his schoolmates had enjoyed in the playground that afternoon, "and I do love walking in snow."

"You know you have a slight cold, my dear," Mrs. Trent said, "and I did not want you to run the risk of making it worse."

"Besides, my boots leak," Polly muttered under her breath, "so I could not have gone out anyway."

Mrs. Trent glanced quickly at Cousin Becky, but apparently she had not heard the little girl's complaint, for she was giving her attention to Roger, who was answering a question she had put to him about his school. A look of relief crossed Mrs. Trent's face, seeing which Polly grew suddenly ashamed of her discontentment, and would have given anything to have been able to recall the words which she realised must have grieved her mother to hear; she well knew she would not have had leaky boots if such a state of things could have been remedied.

After tea the children sat at one end of the table preparing their lessons for the following day. Up to the present Polly had been educated by her mother, but it was hoped she would be able to be sent to school later on—to which day she was looking forward with much pleasure, for she had but a dull time of it at home, poor little girl, and she was far more inclined than her brother to chafe against the circumstances of her life. On one occasion she had overheard it remarked to her mother that it was a shame Mr. Marsh did not give his brother-in-law a larger salary for his services, and she had secretly felt a deep sense of resentment against her uncle ever since. Then, too, she disliked her aunt, because that lady did not own sufficient tact to confer her favours in a different manner; and she despised Edgar because his mother petted and spoilt him. So, it must be confessed that poor Polly had but little affection for those relations outside her own household. But the little girl forgot her grievances when, later on, and lessons finished, she and her brother drew their chairs near the fire and Cousin Becky entered into conversation with them, encouraging them to talk of themselves. Before the evening was over the visitor had gained a clear insight into the character of her young cousins, and had learnt a great deal about the family at the Rookery.

Seeing the children were entertaining her guest, Mrs. Trent by-and-by left the room in search of Louisa, whom she found in the kitchen carefully drying Roger's second-best suit of clothes before the fire.

"I'm drying the things slowly so that they shan't shrink," Louisa explained. "Isn't master come yet, ma'am?" she inquired as she glanced at her mistress' face.

"No, and I cannot imagine what's keeping him; he generally comes straight home from the office. I cannot help being nervous, for I know something unusual must have happened to have detained him. It is past eight o'clock. Supposing he should have met with an accident? I expect the streets are like glass to-night."

"I wouldn't go to meet trouble if I were you, ma'am," advised Louisa. She had been in Mrs. Trent's service for several years, and had insisted on accompanying the family to Princess Street, having declared nothing should induce her to leave the mistress to whom she was deeply attached. "You're too anxious, ma'am, that comes of having had so many troubles, I expect; but if anything had happened to the master you would have been the first to have been informed of it. There! Surely that's his step in the hall."

It was, and Mrs. Trent's face brightened immediately. She hastened into the hall, where she found her husband divesting himself of his overcoat.

"I'm late, for we're a hand short at the office," he explained, "and I've had extra work to do. I hope you haven't been anxious, Mary? Yes? That was foolish of you, my dear. How have you been getting on with Cousin Becky?"

"Very well indeed. I have taken a great liking to her, Martin, for she seems so simple-hearted and sincere. She has been doing some mending for me, she begged me to find her some work."

"John mentioned her to me this afternoon," Mr. Trent said, lowering his voice. "He said he considered we'd acted unwisely in inviting her here and that we should probably see we had made a mistake. However, Janie's coming to call on her, and I believe she's to be invited to the Rookery to spend a day. It made my blood boil to hear the tone John adopted in speaking of her—as though she was of no account because she's a poor relation. If Fortune had smiled on us, Mary—" Mr. Trent paused, then added a trifle huskily, "God's will be done. If Fortune had smiled on us, perhaps we might have been unsympathetic too."

[CHAPTER VI]

"SHOWING OFF"

Cousin Becky had been nearly a week at Beaworthy when, one afternoon, Mrs. Marsh called to see her. It was on a Saturday, and Polly and Roger had gone for a walk as the weather was beautifully fine and dry, so they were absent during their aunt's visit and were not told much concerning it, though they would have liked to have known all that had been said.

"I do wonder what Cousin Becky thinks of Aunt Janie," Polly said to her brother. "I don't like to ask her, but I should dearly like to know."

But the old lady did not say what she thought of Mrs. Marsh, so Polly's curiosity remained unsatisfied; nor, after the few hours she and Mrs. Trent spent at the Rookery one afternoon of the following week, did she have many remarks to make about the home of her well-to-do cousin, but she expressed an interest in Edgar, with whom she had apparently been somewhat favourably impressed. "He seems a manly little fellow," she said, "and I hope his mother will not spoil him by over-indulgence."

"I fear she has done that already," Mrs. Trent replied gravely, "for he is a very wayward and disobedient boy, and he is always making mischief with the servants; he treats them in a most disrespectful manner, from all accounts."

"And he tells stories," declared Polly. "Doesn't he, Roger?"

"Y-e-s," Roger answered reluctantly. "I don't think he means any harm by it, and I don't know that he would tell a big lie, but he does tell a lot of little fibs, and Aunt Janie knows it too, for the last time I was at the Rookery she kept on saying to him, 'Oh, Edgar, dearie, I do wish you would learn to speak the truth!'"

It was impossible not to smile as Roger imitated so exactly the plaintive tone in which his aunt was in the habit of reproving her son; but Cousin Becky became serious again almost immediately.

"It is a terrible thing to be untruthful," she said gravely, "and I believe that, as a rule, one who tells little fibs, as Roger calls them, will not hesitate to utter a big lie when occasion arises. Do you see much of Edgar?" she inquired of Roger.

"Not much, Cousin Becky, and before we went to school I hardly ever had anything to do with him. Sometimes he walks as far as the corner of the street with me now, but I never ask him to come here, for he doesn't like our house."

"It's not grand enough for him," said Polly, tossing her head, "and I'm sure we don't want him here. I can't bear him."

"Oh, he's all right in his way, Polly," said her brother. "I think he's rather nicer than he was at the beginning of the term; there's a lot of fun in him, really. He said something yesterday about asking me to tea at the Rookery on Saturday; he said he would speak to Aunt Janie about it. I wonder if he will."

"Oh, I daresay!" Polly returned in a would-be indifferent tone as she speculated whether an invitation would be extended to her too.

However, that was not to be the case, for when Saturday came Roger only was asked to the Rookery, and the little girl found herself left out in the cold. She was vastly indignant, though she would not for the world have acknowledged as much; she felt she had been slighted, and, to make the matter worse, her father condoled with her on having to remain at home, whereupon Roger said carelessly:

"Oh, she doesn't mind, father! She doesn't like Edgar, so it wouldn't be much fun for her, anyway."

Polly was on the brink of tears, for though she certainly did not like her cousin, it would have been a great treat for her to have spent a few hours at the Rookery; and she much desired to see the "winter garden," as her uncle called the greenhouse where he grew hyacinths, primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and various other flowers which flourish under glass in early spring. She kept silence, however, and hoped no one noticed her disappointment, for she was successful in blinking away the tears which, against her will, had risen to her eyes.

When Roger arrived at the Rookery, he found that his aunt and uncle had gone away to spend the day; but Edgar, who had been on the look-out for him and met him at the front door, appeared to think they would have a much more enjoyable time on that account, "for now we shall be able to do exactly as we like," he said gleefully, adding that his mother had given orders that they were to have whatever they pleased for tea.

It was a lovely February day with a touch of spring in the air, for the weather, after a short spell of frost, had turned milder, so the boys spent most of the afternoon in the gardens and outbuildings connected with the house. Roger was charmed with the flowers in the winter garden and would have liked to have remained longer to admire their manifold beauties, but Edgar grew impatient and hurried him away. From thence they visited the stable, where the visitor was allowed to smooth the sleek sides of the pair of horses which he longed to be able to drive and, much to the amusement of a groom who stood by chewing a straw, he confessed his ambition to be a coachman when he should be grown-up. The idea seemed to tickle the fancy of Edgar, for he laughed immoderately.

"Why, Roger, you'd have to wear livery if you were a coachman," he reminded his cousin.

"Of course," Roger answered. "I shouldn't mind that. What are you laughing at? I love horses, and—"

"And they love you, sir," interposed the groom good-naturedly; "animals know those who like them. Look at that now!"

One of the horses had turned his head and was rubbing his nose against Roger's sleeve.

The little boy was very reluctant to leave the stable; but Edgar declared that he was hungry and wanted his tea, so they went into the house, where they found a most tempting repast awaiting them in the dining-room—a repast which, to the visitor, appeared all that any reasonable person could desire, though Edgar did a great deal of grumbling. There were two sorts of jam on the table, but the young host was satisfied with neither and rang the bell, bidding the maid-servant who answered his summons to bring another kind. Then he complained that the cake was stale, and that the bread and butter was not cut thin enough—Roger thought the cake was delicious, and the bread and butter, if anything, too thin—and at length the servant grew exasperated and told him he was a foolish boy to try to show off before his cousin, a remark which made him very angry indeed.

A PERILOUS SITUATION.

COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF "ROBIN OF SUN COURT," "GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.

WITH TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

BY ISABEL WATKIN

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

19, GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.

NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3, BIBLE HOUSE

1909

[All rights reserved]

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS