"MARIGOLD, it is time for the boys to go to bed. I wish you would give them their supper, as I want to get this embroidery finished to-night, if possible."

The speaker was Mrs. Holcroft, a pale-faced, dark-eyed woman of about thirty-five, with a slight figure, and a somewhat nervous manner. She had been six years a widow, and a snowy cap rested on her brown hair—hair that was streaked with white around her temples. Marigold, her little daughter, aged eleven, was seated at a corner of the square table that stood in the middle of the sitting-room, so engrossed in the story-book she was reading that she failed to grasp the sense of her mother's request, and looked up inquiringly.

"What was that you said, mother?" she asked, turning a pair of thoughtful dark eyes upon her mother as she spoke, and carefully marking the place she was reading with a slip of paper before shutting her book,—"Something about the boys wasn't it?"

"Yes, dear. It is their bedtime, and I want you to see about their supper. I am sorry to disturb you, but—"

A slight sigh, and a glance at the work on which she was employed finished the sentence. Mrs. Holcroft added to her scanty means by doing art-needlework for a fashionable West-End shop, and all her spare moments were spent in designing new patterns for her embroideries, or in executing the orders she was fortunate enough to obtain.

"Of course I will see to the boys," Marigold replied cheerfully. "Must that work be finished to-night, mother?"

"Yes, my dear. You know the quarter's rent will be due next week, and we are badly in want of many things."

Marigold glanced around the shabby sitting-room with a sigh, as she rose and put away her book on a shelf. Then she crossed to her mother's side, and kissed her pale face lovingly.

"It's a shame you should have to work so hard, mother!" she whispered.

"Nonsense, my dear. I want to have a talk with you presently, Marigold; but put the boys to bed first."

The little girl went from the sitting-room into the kitchen, where her two brothers, Rupert and Lionel, aged respectively nine and seven, were amusing themselves, each in the way he liked best, Rupert with his fretwork, and Lionel by sticking coloured pictures into his scrap-book. At her desire they willingly cleared up the litter they had made; and then she set about getting their supper, which was comprised of thick bread-and-butter and a cup of cocoa apiece.

Mrs. Holcroft and her three children occupied a small flat—really a workman's flat—in a cheap suburb of London. Their home comprised one sitting-room, a kitchen and scullery, and three bedrooms. The mother, with her little daughter's assistance, did the housework, and the money they thus saved was spent in sending the two boys to a day-school. So far Mrs. Holcroft had instructed Marigold. The child was quick to learn, and though not behind other girls of her age in general knowledge, Mrs. Holcroft realised that she ought to be sent to school, and how to provide ways and means to bring about this result had long been weighing on the mother's mind.

When the boys were at last safely in bed, and Marigold had turned out the gas in their bedroom, she went back to the sitting-room, and found that Mrs. Holcroft had finished her work and was carefully folding it up.

"The labour of the day is over," Mrs. Holcroft remarked brightly. "I must go and kiss the boys good-night, and then you and I will have a cosy chat, Marigold."

The little girl poked the fire into a blaze, and pulled an easy-chair closer to the hearth. Outside the wild March wind was howling, and the rain pattering against the window-pane, whilst now and then the roll of a cab's wheels, or hurrying footsteps on the pavement were heard in a lull of the gale.

"What a weird night it is!" Mrs. Holcroft exclaimed, as she returned from saying good-night to her little sons. "Poor sailors! I pity them in this storm!"

She sank wearily into the easy-chair, and Marigold drew a stool close to her side on the hearthrug, and sat down on it, leaning her arms on her mother's knees.

"You always think of the poor sailors in a storm," she said; "I suppose that is because you are a sailor's daughter, mother."

"Yes, doubtless. And then, you know, Marigold, I always lived by the sea until I married your father; after that we led a somewhat wandering life for years. Your father was with his regiment, and of course I went with him."

Mrs. Holcroft was silent for a moment, her dark eyes looked troubled, and her hands nervously clasped and unclasped themselves in her lap.

"I want to tell you a little about your father and his people, my dear," she continued, "because I think you are old enough now to know why they were angry with him. It was because he married me, Marigold."

"Because he married you, mother!" the little girl echoed, in accents of intense surprise.

"Yes. I was an only child, and lived with my father in a little West-country fishing village. Father was a retired sea-captain, and our home overlooked the sea. I had such a happy girlhood, and never had a trouble in my life till one day when father told me that he had risked all his savings in one speculation which had failed, and we were ruined. Father only lived a week after that; the shock of knowing that he was penniless killed him!"

"How sad!" Marigold cried. "And it was then you married my father, wasn't it?"

"Yes. He was only a subaltern at that time, though later he was raised to the rank of captain. We had known each other a good while, for he used to stay in our village for the fishing. We were married hurriedly on account of poor father's death, and afterwards I discovered that the step my husband had taken had offended the nearest relatives he had, two maiden aunts who had brought him up from infancy, and who had always loved him very dearly."

"He thought that because they were so fond of him they would forgive his marrying without first consulting them; but he was mistaken. He went to see them, but they would have nothing to do with him, and declared they would never forgive him. He would never go near them again, for they were rich, and he feared they would think he wanted their money, when really he was anxious only to be friends with them because they had been so very good and kind to him in the past. When he died I wrote to them, and they answered me politely, and offered to take you, Marigold, and bring you up as they had done your father."

"Oh, mother!"

"I refused. I do not know if I was right or wrong; but I think, I hope I was right! I could not give you up to them, then. I wanted to train my little girl myself till she should be old enough to remember her mother's teaching. I believe my husband's aunts to be good women, but I could not leave it to them to set your infant feet in the way of truth—that I felt was your mother's privilege, a duty for which I was accountable to God."

Mrs. Holcroft's usually pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, her dark eyes glowed with the light of a great purpose.

"And so I chose to rear you in poverty, to work for you myself, and I have never regretted it. But, latterly, I have known that you ought to have advantages of education that I cannot give you; and so, Marigold, a few days ago I wrote to your father's aunts, and asked them for the sake of the love they once bore their nephew to assist his daughter to obtain that which in the future should enable her to earn her own living. In my pocket is their reply, written by Miss Pamela Holcroft, the younger of the sisters, who is, I have heard, much the sterner and less forgiving of the two!"

"Oh, mother!" Marigold broke in; "how could you ask them?"

Mrs. Holcroft smiled at the indignation in the child's voice as she answered—

"Remember they are your father's aunts, and would willingly, I believe gladly, have adopted you years ago, if I would have permitted it. I think they would have loved you very dearly, Marigold, and you would have had every comfort and luxury that money could supply—sometimes when we have had to go short at home I have wondered if, after all, I acted wisely!"

"Oh yes, yes, mother, be very sure you did! I don't mind being poor, so long as I am with you!"

"We have been happy together; you have been my right hand since you were a little toddling mite who used to insist on dusting the legs of the chairs for me! I do not know what I should have done without you through the dark days after your father's death, and of late years you have become very helpful in many ways. I am not naturally so brave as you, Marigold; you are a true soldier's daughter."

The little girl beamed with pleasure at these words of praise. The remembrance of her father was a dim memory, but she knew he had been an honourable man, an upright, truth-loving Christian gentleman, and her mother always spoke of him with tender affection and pride.

Mrs. Holcroft now took a large, square envelope from her pocket, from which she drew Miss Pamela Holcroft's letter, written in a fine flowing handwriting, and proceeded to read it aloud. It ran as follows:—

"NO — POWDERHAM CRESCENT,

EXETER, March. 18, 189—."

"To MRS. HOLCROFT."

"MADAM,—In reply to your letter to my sister

and myself, which we received yesterday, wherein

you request us for the sake of our nephew to

extend a favour to his daughter, and supply

you with the necessary means to enable you

to obtain for her such an education as will

allow her to earn her own living, I must tell

you that we are unanimous upon this point,

and distinctly decline to entertain the idea

for a moment."

"When our misguided nephew married without

our consent, and even without consulting us

in reference to the matter, we washed our hands

of him; but we desire to be just, and would not

visit the sins of the parents upon the children,

therefore we are willing to take the little girl,

Marigold, into our own home, to see she is

well-educated, and, if she prove tractable and

grateful, to provide for her future. We are

agreeable that she should write to you once

a fortnight, and if you please, that she should

visit you for a month once a year, that she

may not grow up a stranger to her mother and

brothers. We desire you to consider this offer

at your leisure, not hastily, but with due

thought, and are convinced that in doing so

you will realise what is best for the welfare

of our nephew's daughter.—I am, madam,

yours faithfully,"

"PAMELA HOLCROFT."

"There, darling," Mrs. Holcroft said, as she folded up the letter and returned it to her pocket, "now you know all. What am I to say to Miss Pamela?"

"Say that I can never, never leave you, mother!" Marigold cried passionately. "What a cold, horrid letter to write! As though I could ever live with a nasty old woman like that!"

"Hush, hush! You must not speak so! Think how good and kind your father's aunts always were to him, and he disappointed them more than you can understand! I feel he would wish you to go to them now, and if they should love you, my little daughter, they may learn to forgive him in time. I want you to take advantage of their generous offer, to learn all you possibly can, and grow up a clever, helpful woman, so that whatsoever betides in the future, you may be able to earn your own living. Miss Pamela says she and her sister will provide for you, but my great hope is that they will put you in the way of providing for yourself. It is my wish that you should go to Exeter, because I believe it will be for your ultimate good."

"Oh, mother, mother, do not send me away from you!"

The tears rose to Marigold's eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. She looked pitifully into her mother's face, and read there a look of mingled regret and determination,—regret at the coming parting, determination that no personal feeling or weakness on her part should mar her little daughter's prospects.

"I do not want to part with you, my darling," Mrs. Holcroft said gently; "I should like to keep you always by my side, but that cannot be. I believe it is my duty to let you go to Exeter to your aunts, and I want you not to put difficulties in the way. Our path in life is rarely smooth, but we can do much to make things easier, if we make up our minds to be cheerful, and contented with our lot. Let God choose. He will show you the way to go, stand by your side, and help you over all difficulties, if you humbly trust in Him. You know that, Marigold?"

"Yes, mother," the child acknowledged; "but—"

"But it is hard to trust, because you cannot see your way marked out quite clearly. Oh, my dear, we are all like little children treading an unknown road; but One has gone before who through trial and tribulation has overcome the obstacles that alarm us, and who will lead us on our pilgrimage through this world till we come to His everlasting kingdom. Marigold, you know you have Jesus for your Friend, do you not?"

"Yes, mother."

"To-night when you go to bed I want you to think of a verse of my favourite hymn, and see if you cannot make it a real prayer—"

"I dare not choose my lot;

I would not if I might;

Choose Thou for me, my God,

So shall I walk aright."'

So saying, Mrs. Holcroft took her little daughter's face between her two hands, and though her heart was heavy at the thought of the parting to come, she smiled brightly as she added—

"Dry your tears, my dear, and remember you are a soldier's daughter. You have a bright, happy spirit and a brave, loyal heart. I want you to be a great comfort to those two old aunts at Exeter, and I am sure if you try, it will not be long before you win their love."

Marigold choked back her tears, and endeavoured to smile, but it was a sorry attempt. It seemed to her that some terrible calamity had befallen her, and that she could never possibly be happy again as long as she lived.

[CHAPTER II]

A NEW STEP IN LIFE AND A NEW FRIEND

THE following morning Mrs. Holcroft, in spite of tears and protestations from Marigold, wrote to her husband's aunts and declared her acceptance of their offer, and in the course of a few posts received the reply, written as the preceding letter had been by Miss Pamela, the younger sister. Mrs. Holcroft knew that the elder Miss Holcroft—Aunt Mary—had been her husband's favourite aunt, being a much milder, gentler person than Miss Pamela, to whom she had grown accustomed to defer in every matter, whether of importance or not, and she rightly guessed that if Miss Holcroft had been allowed to entertain a mind of her own, she would have been friends with her nephew years before his death.

Mrs. Holcroft saw at once by the tenor of Miss Pamela's letter that she was really eager to see the little girl, and decided that as the parting was now inevitable it should not be delayed too long, or Marigold would have time to dwell on the thought of separation from her family. So the day was fixed for her journey westward, and preparations were commenced to renovate her somewhat scanty wardrobe. Marigold, who had at first been in the depths of despair at the idea of leaving her mother and brothers, could not help feeling an interest in these preparations, and as her mother was persistently cheerful, her own spirits began to revive. As to the boys, Marigold was somewhat hurt, to find that they did not seem to be much upset at the thought of being parted from her.

"I don't believe you care in the least," she told them vexedly.

"Oh yes, I do," Rupert answered. "We shall miss you, of course, for you're not a bad sort for a girl, Marigold! But think what a good time you will have, with servants to wait on you and money to spend! Oh, don't I wish I were in your place!"

"So do I!" little Lionel agreed.

"I wish you boys were going instead of me," Marigold grumbled. "I'm sure I'd much rather stay at home with mother—think how hard she'll have to work when I'm gone! She'll have to clean your boots, and—"

"No, she won't," Rupert interposed, "I'm to do that myself! I mean to get up earlier in the mornings and help mother like you do now, Marigold!"

"Oh, how nice of you, Rupert! And you'll write to me and let me know how you get on with your fretwork, and if you are put in a higher form at school next term, won't you?"

"Mother will be sure to tell you that. You're going to write to us once a fortnight, aren't you? Mind you say what Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela are like, and how you get on with them."

"Oh yes, I'll be sure to tell you that. I'm afraid I shan't like them much, though. I have an idea Aunt Pamela will be very stiff and disagreeable."

"I daresay," Rupert replied, not very hopefully. "Doesn't it seem funny to think they brought father up? Mother says he went to live with them when he was quite small. I say, Marigold, you are very expensive."

"Expensive?" the little girl said wonderingly. "What do you mean, Rupert?"

"You are having all sorts of new clothes—a jacket, and a hat, and two new frocks, and—"

"Oh, now I understand! Yes! Mother said she would not like me to go to Exeter shabby and wanting new things immediately. Oh dear, only two days more at home!"

Mrs. Holcroft coming into the room at that moment heard the conclusion of the sentence, and echoed Marigold's sigh. She had made up her mind that she would not fret at having to give up the charge of her little daughter to those who were complete strangers to her; once having decided in which direction her duty lay; she, never faltered in the course she had taken. Nor would she allow Marigold to repine, for this gentle woman, with her naturally nervous disposition, had a wonderful fund of strength in reality, founded on a firm belief in God and His power to uphold her in all trials of whatsoever nature.

The night before Marigold's departure she and her mother had a long, long talk after the boys had retired to rest; and, much to the little girl's surprise and delight, her mother put into her hands the Bible that had been her dead father's constant companion.

"I wish you to have it, my dear," Mrs. Holcroft said tenderly. "You will see by the flyleaf that it was given to your father by his aunts when he was quite a boy. The writing underneath is his own: 'Fight the good fight of Faith.' That was his motto, and I want it to be yours. He told me that he wrote it down there the same day he obtained his commission in the army, that he might not forget whilst he was serving his Queen and country that he was fighting too for the cause of One greater than any earthly monarch against mightier, more deadly evils than are ever overcome by the sword. At one time I thought of keeping this book for Rupert, but you are the first of my fledglings to leave the nest, and I think your father would like you to have it now."

"Oh, mother, are you sure you do not want to keep it for yourself?" Marigold inquired.

"Quite sure. I have many other things that belonged to your father, and I wish you to have his Bible, and take his motto for yours, will you?"

"Indeed, indeed I will!"

"And you will read from his Bible every day, and ask God to be with you in your new life? You are going into a different world, my darling, to the one you have been familiar with so long. Here we have worked amongst working people, but in Exeter with your aunts, you will be thrown with those who have always been accustomed to plenty of this world's goods, and be tried with temptations that have never crossed your path before. I pray my little daughter may be kept unspotted from the world, that she may hold fast to her father's motto all her life, and ever fight the good fight of Faith!"

Mrs. Holcroft had spoken very solemnly, holding Marigold's little hand in hers, and looking earnestly into her wistful dark eyes. There was a long silence, broken at length by Marigold's saying, with a deep-drawn sigh—

"To-morrow this time I suppose I shall be at Exeter?"

"Yes, dear. I want you to try to please your aunts, and be attentive to their wishes. They are getting old, and I have no doubt are rather particular and fidgety, but you must never be impatient if they are. I am afraid you are inclined to be untidy, so you must guard against leaving things out of place; then again, you are apt to speak too hastily, without reflecting if you are injuring anyone's feelings by doing so. You must learn to curb that unruly tongue of yours."

"Yes, mother, I will really try. But oh, I know I shall be so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy!"

"You will be a little lonely at first, no doubt; and you will miss the boys—"

"I shall miss you most of all, mother!"

"Ah, yes! But I shall be thinking of you, little daughter; and if you want to make me feel happy you must learn to be happy yourself."

Marigold had to say good-bye to the boys before they started for school, in the morning, as she would be gone before they returned. They clung around her neck kissing her, and crying all the while, for, now the parting had really come, they felt it quite as much as she did. Rupert forgot to be ashamed of his tears, as he sobbed out: "It's hard lines you should have to go, Marigold!" Whilst as for little Lionel he was in too great trouble to speak coherently at all.

But the worst time for Marigold was when she stood by her mother's side on the platform at Paddington Station, her modest trunk already labelled and in the train, and her mother's arms around her. She felt too dazed and shaken to say anything, and allowed herself to be placed in a compartment without uttering a word.

"Good-bye, my darling child," Mrs. Holcroft said. "The guard will see you get out at Exeter, and you know you will be met there."

"I'll see she's all right, ma'am," said a loud, jovial voice. "I'm going on by this train, and my destination is Exeter, too; so, if you'll entrust your little maid to me, I'll look after her to the best of my ability."

Mrs. Holcroft cast a quick look at the speaker. He was a tall, stout man, clad in a suit of tweed, and wore leather leggings. He had a brick-red complexion, a clean-shaven countenance, and a pair of kindly blue eyes; evidently a large man, with a large voice, and a large heart, if the mother's perception told her truly.

"How good of you!" she cried. "My little girl has never taken a long journey alone before."

"You may make your mind easy about her, ma'am."

"Thank you so much!"

There was no time for more conversation. The guard blew his whistle, and the train steamed out of the station, leaving Mrs. Holcroft gazing after it with the heaviest heart she had owned for many a day.

Marigold leaned back in her corner of the carriage, and tried hard not to cry, because she did not wish her fellow-travellers to notice her grief, and perhaps ask the cause. But, in spite of her efforts for composure the hot tears would come, and roll down her cheeks, till at last she had to take out her handkerchief and wipe them away.

She looked resolutely out of the window, trying to take an interest in the view, but it was all no good, she felt as though her heart was breaking. Having stealthily wiped her eyes for the third time, she glanced hastily around the compartment, and was much relieved to find that no one appeared to be paying her any attention, except her opposite neighbour, the stranger who had spoken to her mother, and he was peeping at her around the newspaper that he was holding open in front of him. When he met Marigold's tearful eyes he withdrew behind the newspaper, but the next moment he was peeping at her again, not curiously, but with a look of evident concern. This time he spoke—

"Have you ever been westward before?" he inquired.

"No, never!" she answered shyly.

"Ah, you have a treat in store, then! Fine place Exeter! Fine county Devon! I'm a Devonshire man; was born in a little village a few miles from Exeter."

"Oh! My mother and father were both born in Devonshire too!"

He brought his great hands down on his knees with a sounding smack that made his fellow-passengers start and regard him with amazement. Nothing abashed he laughed loudly.

"That's capital!" he cried. "Capital! That was your mother, I suppose, the lady on the platform at Paddington?"

"Yes."

At the thought of her mother the tears rose afresh to Marigold's eyes. Her new acquaintance saw them, and hastily turned the conversation to himself again.

"Yes, I'm Devonshire born," he continued; "my name's Joseph Adams, and my friends call me 'Farmer Jo.' Now, what, if I may make so bold as to ask, is your name, little missy?"

"Marigold Holcroft," she answered.

"Marigold! Why, that's the name of a flower! What made them call you that, I wonder? Marigold!" he repeated reflectively.

"It's quite a common flower, I know," she said, "but my mother loves it, because in the garden of her old home marigolds used to spring up year after year, and her father used to like them."

"Ah! you've got a good mother, I take it, little missy!"

"Yes, a very good mother," the little girl responded, and this time as she mentioned the dear name a smile crossed her face and drove away the tears. Her new friend looked at her approvingly, his jovial face radiant with good humour.

"I've got an old mother at home," he told her, "nigh upon eighty years of age she is, and hale and hearty still! She's a wonderful woman!"

Marigold looked interested, for to her young eyes the farmer, who was not more than forty-five, seemed quite old, and she was surprised to hear he had a mother living. She wondered if he had a wife and children too.

"I'm a bachelor," he continued, as though in answer to her thought, "and my mother keeps house for me. There's not a cleverer housewife in the county than she is! If you stay in Exeter long, I may run across you one of these days. Mother and I always drive into the city on Fridays—market-days, you know—and in the afternoon we give ourselves a treat. We go to the cathedral to hear the anthem."

"I am to live with my aunts," Marigold explained, "and their house is in Powderham Crescent. Perhaps you know that part?"

He nodded an assent. Marigold, who had by this time got over her first shyness, felt her spirits rising. At Didcot, Farmer Jo bought a packet of Banbury cakes, and gave it to her. The little girl, who had hardly tasted her breakfast, and was beginning to get hungry, thought she had never eaten anything so nice in her life before.

She began to enjoy the journey, and feasted her eyes on the beautiful scenery through which they were passing. The train sped on through meadowlands verdant with the rains of early spring, where young lambs skipped and jumped at play, and the little girl clapped her hands with delight at the sight.

"How beautiful everything is!" she exclaimed. "Oh, please, what are those flowers?"

"Cowslips," Farmer Jo answered, smiling at her enthusiasm, "and as we get farther down the line, you will see plenty of primroses too!"

"Oh, how lovely! I am so fond of flowers! I wish mother could see them!"

It was about four o'clock when the train at length neared Exeter.

"We are nearly come to the ever faithful city, little missy," Farmer Jo remarked.

Marigold looked at him inquiringly, wondering what he meant.

"The city's motto is Semper fidelis, and that's Latin for 'Ever faithful,'" he explained.

"Oh, I did not know that!"

"Have you had a pleasant journey?" he inquired.

"Indeed I have! You have been so very kind to me!"

"Oh, that's nothing! I like to have someone to talk to. Well," as the train slowed into the station, "here we are at last!"

He assisted Marigold to alight. The little girl's heart beat fast as she looked around, to see if her aunts had come to meet her. In a few minutes a tall woman, neatly attired in black, came to her side, and touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"Are you Miss Marigold Holcroft?" the stranger asked.

"Yes. You—you are not my aunt?" Marigold answered doubtfully.

"Certainly not!" was the quick reply, spoken in rather sharp tones. "I am your aunts' maid, and they have sent me to meet you. What luggage have you brought?"

"Only one, box."

"Well, little missy, seeing you're in safe keeping, I'll say good-bye," Farmer Jo put in at this point.

"Good-bye!" Marigold answered, as she clasped his great hand between her two small palms, feeling as though she was parting from a real friend. "Good-bye! When I write to mother I shall tell her what good care you took of me, and how very, very kind you have been!"

"No matter! no matter!" he responded hastily. "I am glad we happened to meet, though!"

The little girl gazed after his big tweed-clad figure as it disappeared in the crowd with a sinking heart and a quivering lip; then she obediently followed her aunts' maid, and having claimed her box, they passed out of the railway station, and entering the first cab at hand, were driven away.

[CHAPTER III]

MARIGOLD MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF HER AUNTS

"MARY, you fidget me by continually getting up and going to the window to look-out. Pray curb your impatience."

Miss Pamela Holcroft spoke with considerable sharpness, and laid down her woolwork to look severely at her elder sister. A very handsome woman still, in spite of her sixty-five years, was Miss Pamela, tall and commanding in figure, with a clearly cut, colourless face, framed by snowy hair that was dressed high on the top of her head. Her eyes were large, dark, and piercing, and gave one the impression that they were always trying to find out people's weaknesses and bad qualities.

Miss Holcroft was quite an old woman, many years above seventy, in fact. She was shorter and stouter than her sister, and less dignified in manner. She wore her white hair in little corkscrew curls, her dark eyes were soft and gentle, and her countenance was set in good-tempered lines. At the present moment she was smiling brightly.

"I cannot help feeling impatient," she said, in answer to her sister's reproof, "and I know you are really as anxious to see the child as I am, though you do not acknowledge it. I should have liked to have gone to the station myself, but as you would send Barker—"

"Which was the wiser plan," Miss Pamela interposed. "You are so fussy, Mary!"

"Fussy!"

For a moment the elder lady looked indignant, but after a moment's reflection she smiled again.

"I wonder if she will be like her father, Pamela! I hope so! Marigold! It is a sweet name, I think!"

"A most absurd one!" Miss Pamela exclaimed. "No doubt the mother chose it! Marigold, indeed!"

"Well, well," in conciliatory tones, "I have an idea she will be a nice little girl. I cannot help feeling we have undertaken a very great responsibility in removing the child from her mother's care, and I hope God will guide us how to bring her up so that she may become a good woman. I trust she will prove docile and sweet-tempered."

"Her father was both; but, of course, she may take after her mother!"

"I liked the tone of her mother's letters, and I sometimes think we may have been prejudiced against her. You know I always thought dear Rupert acted impulsively and without consideration, rather than with any idea of disrespect to us. If you had allowed him to explain—"

"We do not want to go over old ground, Mary. Is not that a cab coming?"

"Yes, and it is stopping here! Oh, the child has arrived! See! Barker is helping her out! Oh, what a thin, pale, little creature she looks! She sees us watching! Oh, Pamela, do let us go into the hall to meet her!"

"No. Sit down, Mary!" Miss Pamela said, in the tones of command that her sister never thought of disobeying. "Barker will bring her in presently."

Miss Holcroft sank into a chair with a sigh of disappointment, and waited impatiently enough till there was a knock at the drawing-room door. Miss Pamela answered: "Come in!" and then Barker's voice announced: "Miss Marigold Holcroft!"

Marigold advanced towards her aunts timidly, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes. It was Miss Holcroft who, rising quickly, took the little trembling figure in her arms and gave her a welcoming kiss.

"I am very glad to see you, my dear," she said heartily, "and I hope you will have a happy home with us."

"Thank you," Marigold answered. She gave a quick look at the kind old face, and then returned the caress, feeling that here was one who meant to be her friend.

Miss Pamela now came forward to greet her niece, but her stiff manner repelled the child, and the cold, clear tones of her voice struck chill on her sensitive heart. It seemed to Marigold that those piercing dark eyes were looking her through and through, and she felt restive under their steady gaze.

"There is a look of our nephew about her, I think," Miss Pamela remarked to her sister. "Do you not see it? She has his eyes."

"Yes," Miss Holcroft agreed, "I saw that at once. Are you considered like your father, my dear?"

"Mother says we are all three like him, and she is very glad."

A distinct look of approval was visible on both aunts' faces.

"Sit down, Marigold," Miss Holcroft said; "you must be tired after your long journey. You know which is which of us, I suppose? My sister is Aunt Pamela, and I am Aunt Mary!"

"Yes," the little girl answered smiling, "I thought so!"

"They will miss you at home," Miss Holcroft continued. "What will your brothers do, now they have lost you for a playfellow?"

"The boys are at school most of the day," Marigold responded, "but mother—she will miss me dreadfully!"

There was a break in her voice as she spoke, and the ready tears welled into her eyes again. Miss Pamela shot a scathing glance at her sister, which was met by one of pure bewilderment. With the best intentions in the world, Miss Holcroft was a decidedly tactless person, and to remind Marigold how she would be missed at home was certainly unwise. Miss Pamela rang the bell, and told the parlour-maid to take Miss Marigold to her room.

"We shall have tea in about half an hour," she explained to the little girl, "so you will have plenty of time to remove the traces of your journey. Barker shall unpack your box for you by and by."

Marigold found a bright, sunny bedroom had been allotted to her, out of the window of which she had an excellent view of all the other houses in the crescent. She turned approving eyes upon the pretty brass bed with its chintz curtains, and the suite of white enamelled furniture looking so dainty and fresh, and evidently arranged with an eye to comfort as well as elegance. Close to the window was a small writing-table, on which stood a glass vase containing a bunch of white violets. It was altogether the prettiest bedroom Marigold had ever seen, she thought, as she mentally compared it with her little cupboard of a room at home.

Presently Barker came to her assistance, and brushed the dust from her blue serge frock, and proceeded to comb her hair. Marigold felt shy and uncomfortable, for she was accustomed to wait on herself, and Barker's face, as reflected by the glass on the dressing-table, was grim and unsmiling.

She was a plain-faced woman of about forty, and had been with her present mistresses for many years. Truth to tell, she did not approve of the new arrival, for she was not fond of children, and was anything but pleased to find she would be expected to assist Marigold in her toilette if necessary. She had yet to discover how few services at her hands the little girl would require.

"Thank you," Marigold said, with a sense of relief, when Barker had at last tied back her hair with its dark blue ribbon. "I am very much obliged to you."

"There's the tea-bell, miss!" Barker exclaimed. "You'd best make haste down, for the ladies don't like to be kept waiting. Come, I'll show you the room."

Marigold followed Barker downstairs and into the dining-room, where Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela were already seated at the large square table that occupied the centre of the room, the latter with the tea-tray in front of her.

"You will sit here at my left hand," Miss Pamela told Marigold; "that will be your place at mealtimes. We breakfast at eight, dine at half-past one, and partake of tea at five o'clock punctually. My sister and I have our supper at nine, but that is too late for you. I shall expect you to be in bed every night by nine o'clock, so you will find your supper ready for you an hour earlier. We are simple folks, and never dine late. What are you saying Mary?"

"I was remarking that Marigold must be hungry, Pamela."

"No, not very," Marigold answered. "I had some Banbury cakes in the train. There was a gentleman in the same carriage with me who was so kind, and he would make me have them."

"That was thoughtful of him," Miss Holcroft said.

"Did he get out at Exeter?" Miss Pamela asked.

"Yes, Aunt Pamela. He lives near here. He said his name was Joseph Adams, and that his friends called him 'Farmer Jo!'"

Miss Pamela's lips took a scornful curve, and she raised her eyebrows. Marigold flushed.

"He was so very kind to me," she said hastily. "I am sure he must be a good man."

Miss Pamela did not seem to think this statement required any answer, and there was a brief silence, daring which Marigold glanced around the room. The furniture of solid mahogany was heavy and handsome, the carpet rich and soft, and the walls were hung with oil paintings. The silver on the sideboard was massive and finely chased. Everything bespoke wealth and plenty. Marigold felt as though she must be dreaming, and that presently she would find herself in the little sitting-room at home with its cheap wall-paper, and thin, faded carpet. She awoke from her reverie with a start, as Miss Holcroft addressed her—

"So you have never been to school, Marigold?"

"Never, Aunt Mary."

"We are thinking of sending you to a day-school after Easter," Miss Pamela broke in; "I fear your education has been sadly neglected."

"Mother taught me all I know," the little girl explained. "She says she does not think I am backward for my age; but, of course, she could not spare much time to teach me, with all the housework to do, and—"

"But have you not a servant?" Miss Holcroft asked, in accents of surprise.

"No, Aunt Mary. Our home is only a workman's flat. Mother and I used to do the cleaning and cooking, and now she will have to do it all by herself—Rupert says he will help though; I am forgetting! Then mother has her needlework to do besides!"

"Needlework?"

"Yes. She sells it to a shop—"

Marigold paused abruptly, conscious of the astonishment and disapproval on her aunts' countenances. Miss Pamela was the first to speak—

"I never imagined our nephew's widow could have fallen so low as that!" she exclaimed.

The hot, angry colour rushed to Marigold's face, flooding it from brow to chin. She was about to make a passionate retort, when she caught an appealing glance from Miss Holcroft, and the words died on her lips. Already she had forgotten her mother's warning, and nearly allowed her unruly tongue to have its way.

"Mother has not fallen low," she said gently, when she had sufficiently overcome her wrath to choose what her reply should be; "I don't think you quite understand, Aunt Pamela. Mother has to work because father had not enough money to give her when he died to keep us all. Mother says we need not be ashamed of being poor; and God helps those who try to do their best!"

"Yes, yes, so He does," Miss Holcroft put in hastily. "I believe in the old proverb: 'God helps those who help themselves.' It is very true."

As Marigold ate her tea, her eyes kept wandering to the wall opposite where she was seated, to an oil painting that represented a little curly-haired boy who appeared to her to bear a strong likeness to her brother Rupert. At last, seeing Miss Pamela noticed what was attracting her attention, she ventured to ask who was the original of the picture.

"That was your father at ten years old," Miss Pamela answered; "and a very good likeness it was considered."

"Oh!" Marigold exclaimed, with excitement in her tones. "It is exactly like our Rupert at home!"

A slight smile crossed Miss Pamela's face, and was gone in an instant; but Marigold had noticed it, and it emboldened her to add—

"Mother says Rupert is the living image of father."

"Then he must be a very handsome boy," Miss Holcroft declared.

"And he is a very good boy too!" the little girl cried, anxious to make an impression in her brother's favour; "and so clever!"

After the meal was over, Marigold accompanied her aunts to the drawing-room, and sat with her hands folded in her lap whilst Miss Pamela talked to her, saying she hoped she meant to be a good girl, and do her best to please them.

"Indeed I will try, Aunt Pamela," she answered earnestly.

"You will find us strict and particular in many ways; but it is our desire that you should be happy with us. Your father had a very happy boyhood, he always said, and I believe he spoke truly. You cannot remember him, I suppose?"

"I do just remember him, but that is all."

"He was a noble boy! Mary and I were proud of him!"

"We were indeed!" Miss Holcroft agreed.

"Oh, please, Aunt Pamela," Marigold said hastily, "mother told me to ask you if you would be good enough to let her know I had arrived safely."

"I should have done so if you had not mentioned it," Miss Pamela answered. "Have you any message to send?"

"Please give her my love—nothing else, thank you."

The letter was written and sent to post. Marigold was allowed to remain idle that first evening, and she sat watching Miss Pamela busily employed with woolwork, with a sense of unreality upon her. Miss Holcroft took some needlework too, but she continually put it down to scan her little niece's features afresh, and smile upon her with such evident goodwill that Marigold's heart could not but feel less lonely. Yet, when she lay down in her pretty chintz-covered bed that night, and thought longingly of her mother and brothers, the tears would come, and painful sobs shook her slender form.

"Oh, to be back with her dear ones once more! To feel the clasp of loving arms, the touch of loving lips! Were they thinking of her at this moment, saying: I wonder how Marigold is getting on, and if she misses us much!"

She felt she had never known how much she loved them till now. Oh, it was hard that she should have had to leave them; it seemed a little unkind her mother should have insisted on sending her away. But no, that was a wrong thought. Mother knew what was best.

Marigold tried to cease crying; she buried her face in the soft, downy pillow, and finally succeeded in stopping her sobs. Then she prayed to God to take care of her dear ones, and to help her to do what was right in His sight, till at length a feeling of comfort and peace stole over her aching heart, and she fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.

[CHAPTER IV]

MARIGOLD'S FIRST DAYS IN HER AUNTS' HOME

MARIGOLD awoke early on the first morning after her arrival at her new home. The bright April sun was shining into her bedroom window from a cloudless blue sky. It was indeed a perfect morning. The little girl jumped out of bed, and drawing up the blind to its fullest height, threw open the window, and stood for a minute or two inhaling the delicate scent of primroses and hyacinths from the garden below. Then she proceeded quickly to dress, wondering what time it was, for she had no watch, and she was fearful lest she should be late for the eight o'clock breakfast. When she was fully dressed she knelt down and said her prayers, asking God's blessing on her new life, and afterwards sat by the open window to read her daily portion from her father's Bible. Downstairs she could hear movements in the house, and presently there was a step outside her bedroom door, followed by a knock on the door itself.

"Come in," said Marigold.

The door opened, and Miss Pamela entered. She looked surprised at the sight of her niece already fully dressed. Marigold put down her Bible on the writing-table, and advancing to her aunt held up her face for a kiss.

"You are up in good time," Miss Pamela remarked, as she lightly touched Marigold's cheek with her lips. "Are you usually such an early riser?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela, I always got up when mother did at home, to dust the sitting-room whilst she cooked the breakfast. But I could not guess the time this morning, and I was afraid of being late."

"I understand. It is now only half-past seven. I came to see if you were awake, and instead I find you up and reading."

Miss Pamela glanced at the Bible on the writing-table, recollection in her look. She took it up after a moment's hesitation, and opening it turned to the flyleaf. After a short silence she said—

"So you have your father's Bible, child?"

"Yes," Marigold answered; "mother gave it to me only the night before last. She said she thought father would wish me to have it."

Miss Pamela stood looking at the Bible thoughtfully. Marigold could not guess that she was recalling the day when she and her sister had given it to their nephew, who had been then a schoolboy, and how Miss Holcroft had begged him to read it.

"I will, Aunt Mary, if only to please you!" he had answered gaily. Later, Miss Pamela knew he had read it to please himself.

She laid the Bible down without further comment upon it, and glanced around the room. "Barker unpacked your box, I suppose? I hope you are a tidy little girl, and keep your things in good order?" she questioned.

"I am afraid I'm not very tidy, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold responded truthfully, blushing at having to make the confession.

"That is a pity. An untidy woman is most objectionable! 'A place for everything and everything in its place,' is an excellent rule. Now, if you are ready, we will go downstairs, and you may assist me to arrange some fresh flowers for the breakfast table."

Marigold followed her aunt with alacrity. At the back of the house was a long garden between high walls, the centre of which was given up to the growth of vegetables, whilst the narrow beds at the sides were devoted to the cultivation of flowers. Marigold uttered a cry of mingled surprise and pleasure when she caught sight of primroses and violets, clumps of golden daffodils and narcissi, forget-me-nots, and virginia stocks and wallflowers bursting into fragrant blossom.

"Oh, Aunt Pamela, what a pretty garden! What lovely flowers!"

Miss Pamela's face showed evident signs of gratification at Marigold's exclamations of admiration. "You like flowers?" she asked, looking with interest at the child's glowing countenance.

"OH, MOTHER, MOTHER, DO NOT SEND ME AWAY FROM YOU!"

LITTLE MAID MARIGOLD

BY

E. H. STOOKE

New York

American Tract Society

150 Nassau Street

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