MEG lay face downwards on the heath. Her auburn hair gleamed gold among the bracken, and her faded green dress mingled well with the pink and green of her resting place.

She had chosen a comfortable couch on which to rest her tired limbs, and of this she was fully conscious. She had been walking for hours without food and her strength was nearly played out; but though tired and hungry she was exulting in the fact that she was alone.

As she had stood panting for breath after her quick walk, which had often turned into a run, she had looked all around to make quite sure that no one was in sight, and on coming to the conclusion that she was alone on the wide heath she had thrown herself down with a sigh of relief.

It was good to be alone, her tired limbs resting on the soft grass and her head buried in her folded arms. The quiet was as balm to her spirit, and the sweet scent of the heather was better just then than food. As a tired child creeps into his mother's bosom, so Meg felt almost a human companionship in mother earth. And the sun in all its glory poured down its beams on her auburn head and lithe young figure.

How long she lay there, half sleeping, half waking, she did not know; but suddenly she was aroused to consciousness by a cold shiver which made her start and sit up. She saw then that the heath was no longer steeped in sunshine; but that its pink had turned into a deep coppery colour, and that facing her were masses of dark cloud, edged with a sulphurous yellow. A low peal of thunder greeted her ears.

She sat up now with her hand clasping her knees, looking with wild excited eyes towards the dark sky. She was conscious that a fearful storm was brewing, but the knowledge brought with it no fear; rather she noticed its approach with exultation. It suited her present mood; and as she watched the lightning playing around her, she laughed.

Suddenly she heard her name called, and sprang to her feet, looking about her like a hunted animal. Then a hand was laid on her arm, not too gently, and she was pulled down again to her place.

"Lie flat girl, or you'll be struck dead. Do you want to make a target of yourself?"

The look of apprehension on the girl's face disappeared as she obeyed, and not a moment too soon. A fearful flash, followed instantly by a peal of thunder struck a tree close by, and a branch fell within a few yards of her, withered and blackened.

Meg made a movement as if to spring to her feet, but her companion held her down.

"Lie down," he cried, "lie flat, Meg. We shall be dead in a moment if you don't heed what I say."

Meg buried her face again feeling a little frightened. They were silent for some minutes, while they listened to the peals of thunder that followed the flashes so quickly that they knew the centre of the storm must be just above them. The rain was pouring down and Meg's companion divested himself of his rough coat, threw it over the girl, and then crept a little further away to a spot where he could get more shelter. He lay and gazed at the head buried amidst the bracken, and in his heart a tempest was raging, in harmony, with nature's wild mood.

Jem knew that he had come to a crisis in his life. Two ways opened before him, one meant a life of misery and sordidness for his companion, the other a possible escape from her present misery. But this possible way was worse than death for him.

He was a tall young man, with an honest, rough looking face, surmounted by a head of curly brown hair. His eyes were of the brightest blue, almost fierce in their brightness. A red handkerchief was knotted round his throat, and the hat which lay on the ground beside him was battered and torn. But had you met him you would have looked at his blue eyes rather than at his shabby clothes. These eyes were bent now on his companion, and in their expression there lay almost a look of worship.

Neither of them spoke till the storm had worn itself nearly out and the thunder had rumbled away in the distance. They were both hard at work, thinking. Meg was shedding tears at the thought that her short lived freedom had come to an end; while her companion was fighting for her freedom in his heart. Should he tell her what would set her free? Should he throw away from his own life the only thing that gave it happiness? At one moment he made up his mind that he would keep the girl in ignorance of the truth, at the next the sight of that little head buried in the bracken made him feel that any sacrifice on his part was worth making to secure her happiness.

At last he sat up.

"Meg," he said.

The girl did not answer or look at him. She was feeling too miserable to make the effort, and too tired. Now that the prospect of freedom had been taken from her, all her strength seemed to have ebbed away, and she knew she was hungry and deadly weary.

"If I hadn't come just when I did," said the man, "you'd have been in the place of that tree I take it. You were sitting right in the line. I saw the flash go over your head. Ain't you glad I saved you, Meg?"

"I don't know," said the girl slowly: "no, I think I'm sorry. I'd as lief be dead than go back to 'em all. The earth is kind: I don't see why I should mind lying here for ever: I think I'd like it." She gave a great sob as she spoke, and buried her head deeper in the bracken.

Her companion was silent for some time, still struggling within himself; then he said, looking away from the prostrate figure of the girl.

"There ain't no need as I know of for you to go back at all."

Meg sat up, while a look of incredulity crossed her face.

"But ain't you sent to fetch me?" she asked.

"No; they said you'd come back quick enough when you were hungry. I came on my own account."

"Oh, Jem, why did you come?" she asked reproachfully. "I want to be lost to 'em. I don't want ever to go back. Hunger won't drive me. I'm hungry now, but I'd starve, rather than that. I hate 'em, mother and father and all," Meg's voice rang out with passion and pain. "If I can't get as far as Minton," she added, "I'll just go to sleep in the heather and not wake up."

"Are you very hungry, Meg?"

"Yes," said the girl bluntly.

"You've had no breakfast?"

"No, I started as soon as there was a streak of light in the sky, and I've been walking ever since. What's the time?"

"It's getting on for six o'clock. If you don't make haste the sun will set and you won't get to Minton before dark."

The girl turned and gazed at her companion with a look of surprise.

"You seem to want me to go," she said.

Jem did not answer. He looked away from her towards the western sky. The dark clouds had disappeared and the setting sun was shedding its radiance once more over the heath. Meg noticed almost unconsciously how it lighted up Jem's face.

She moved a little nearer to her companion.

"Jem, I don't understand. Why have you followed me if you weren't sent to bring me back?"

"I came to tell you that as far as I can see there ain't no call for you to go back at all if you've not a mind to. They can't complain or compel you."

"Not father or mother?" exclaimed the girl.

"No. They ain't got no right to; they haven't had a right all this time to keep you. You can leave 'em straight away if you've a mind to."

"But," persisted the girl, "there's mother."

"No there ain't. She's no mother of yours. She's my aunt, worse luck, but she ain't your mother, and uncle ain't your father. You don't belong to 'em by right and no one could compel you to go to 'em. They know that right enough."

The girl looked dazed.

"She ain't my mother?" she said, "nor that man my father? But then who am I? Where is my mother?"

"That I can't tell you. You're a child of a friend of Aunt's, but I don't know who. She didn't want you, so let Aunt have you. That's all I know."

The girl leant forward eagerly, looking up into her companion's face.

"Look at me, Jem. Look at me and say that you ain't tellin' me a lie."

The man turned and looked at her. His eyes blazed as only blue eyes can.

"Have I ever told you a lie?" he asked, "and do you think I'd be likely to tell you this one?"

"How long have you known this?" asked Meg, breathing quickly.

"For a year come this October."

The girl sprang up clenching her hands.

"You knew it and yet never told me?" she cried. "Then you've acted a lie for nearly a year and you've never given a hand to set me free, though you have known how I have longed for it. You call yourself my friend, and yet you've let me live the life of a dog all these years. I call it—"

But while Meg was searching the depths of her brain for a suitable word—a word in which to express all the scorn that she felt for her companion, he had risen, and now stood towering above her and looking down upon her with a dangerous expression in his eyes.

"You don't know what you're saying," he said sternly. "You don't know what it means to me to tell you even now. It's just the killin' of me. But you don't know and don't care. Do you think it means nothin' to me to help to set you free? When I can't come along of you to see you're safe and happy. You'll have no one to look after you and the world's a wicked place."

The look of indignation on the girl's face was giving way to one of tender surprise.

"I didn't know you liked me so well," she said, "or that you'd mind me goin' so much."

He rammed his hands deep; into his pockets and stood looking at her with the reflection of the sunset full on his face. He looked ruddy and strong and good.

"If it wasn't for Steve we'd go away together," he said gravely, "and we'd be married in the first church we came across, and then you'd always have someone to look after you. But I can't leave Steve."

A look of amusement crossed the girl's face and a little laugh escaped her; but it was cut short at the sight of a fierce flash from the blue eyes confronting her. To marry Jem was not her idea of freedom, and was the last thing she wanted to contemplate, but at the sight of the expression which lay in the blue eyes she said meekly—

"I don't think I want to be married yet. Jem dear. I want to be free, you see."

"You should be free."

"You say so now, but in a year or two you'd think differently I take it. I daresay father said that kind of thing to mother when he went courtin' her, but he don't care a hang for her now, and leads her a pretty life."

"He ain't your father," said Jem roughly, "and don't you be a comparin' me to that brute. Let me look at your arm. Was that him?"

The girl held out her arm and his eyes fastened on an ugly scar just above the wrist. "The brute," he exclaimed savagely, "he shall pay for that."

"What's the use," said Meg. "He was angry with me because I said I'd never sing at the 'Cart and Horse' again. Nothin' vexes father like the thought of losin' money. But it ain't worth bein' angry about, and if I'm to be free what does it matter?"

"He shall pay for it," repeated Jem fiercely. Then after a pause he said in a gentler tone of voice, "You'll take your freedom then, Meg?"

"Yes, I'll take it. But you've been ever so kind to me and I shall miss you badly. Why don't you make up your mind to leave 'em all and get good work."

"It's Steve. I can't leave the poor little chap to aunt's care. They'd starve him if I wasn't there to see. They grumble as it is at the milk he has to have. And when they move on they'll never give a thought to him, or think if he's fit for a tramp. They ought always to put him in the van, but they don't think ought about him. No, I can't leave him yet."

"How much longer will they stay on Boxley Common?" asked the girl.

"I heard 'em talkin' of leavin' this mornin'. They've stayed there longer than in most places, as that pit is convenient at night, but now if you don't come back they'll leave sure enough. I saw this mornin' when they found you'd gone that they were a bit uneasy, they were afraid you might complain of 'em to the police. And now if you don't come back they'll be off. But what do you mean to do?"

"I mean to be free. I shall go towards Minton this evening and beg a night's lodging and some food, and if I can I'll work my way to London. I can sing in the streets and earn enough to keep myself."

Jem looked at her anxiously.

"I hope you'll never sing again in a public house," he said.

"I shall sing in the streets," said Meg evasively, "and when I go to London I shall see Bostock."

The lad's eyes glared.

"Not to be with the wild beasts?"

"Yes, why not? I'd be a deal happier with them than with father and mother in that van; it only wants courage, Jem, and I ain't afeared."

Jem paced up and down in front of his companion to work off his feelings.

"I shan't let you go," he said.

Meg laughed, showing a pretty row of little teeth.

"It'll be fun," she answered. "I'd love to hear 'em growl. It would be excitin' and worth livin' for to tame a lion. You have to stroke their paws through the bars first." She watched her companion's face and laughed again. "I heard all about Bostock's advertisement in the 'Cart and Horse.' I could earn seven pounds a week at Bostock's."

"You shan't do it," growled Jem.

"I'd love it," answered Meg. "I don't think I should be a bit scared. And then I'd want you to come and look at me sittin' among 'em all when my training was done. You'd like that wouldn't you? You'd be proud to have known me I guess."

But the girl had gone too far. Jem caught hold of her wrist, holding it in his iron grasp.

"If I thought you meant it," he said fiercely, "I'd take you back this moment to the van. You'd best take care how you talk to me."

Meg laughed up into his face.

"I'm afraid they'd never take me. Why, what do you think they'd say to me if I went to 'em like this," she added looking down at her dress. "I'm not fine lady enough for them London folks. I fear there ain't much chance for me."

But he still held her wrist, and stood looking down upon her with his bright blue eyes.

"Promise me," he said, and his voice had a ring of tenderness in it which touched the heart of his companion. "Promise me that you won't be up to tricks, but will take care of yourself. Promise me now."

"Of course I shall," said Meg. "Don't you be afeared. I'm not a fool. And I'll remember you, dear; I'll never forget you, and when little Steve is dead and you leave 'em, marry you right enough."

He dropped her arm then, and without another look left her standing alone among the bracken and heather.

Meg felt a lump rise in her throat, as she watched him out of sight. Then she looked down at his hat which he had left behind him and which lay at her feet.

She took it up and examined the battered crown with a tender little smile hovering on her lips. Then with a laugh she stuck it on her head and ran towards Minton and freedom.

[CHAPTER II]

THE SINGER

IT was dark when Meg first caught sight of the lights of Minton. The fact that she was free had so buoyed her up, that till she looked on the distant town she had not realized her hunger or weariness. But now that she knew she was within a mile or two of her destination she felt as if she could walk no further; and sinking down on the grass that edged the roadside she fell asleep.

She was well used to sleeping under the stars, but on awaking at the sound of a passing cart, she sat up suddenly, and experienced for almost the first time in her life a sensation of fear. She had dreamt that she heard the tap—tap—of the wooden leg of the man who for years she had supposed to be her father—and that she was hiding in the dark ditch to escape him. She longed now for Jem's protecting presence. A terrible sense of loneliness oppressed her, due no doubt to her tired and hungry condition. Then she realized that it was imperative for her to get some money before she could either satisfy her hunger or procure a night's lodging.

Jem's hat had fallen off her head and it took some little time to find it in the dark; but she would not on any account have left it behind her, and when she found it she held it tight, feeling it almost a protection. Anyhow it filled her with comforting thoughts as she trudged along towards Minton. She was sure that Jem would not forget her and would somehow or other find out where she was. She had a strange kind of feeling about him. So long as he was in the world she felt she could not come to much harm without his knowing it and coming to her help.

About a mile from Minton Meg found she was passing some large white gates. They were open, and looking up the avenue she caught sight of a brightly lighted house. This might be her chance of earning money, she thought, so made her way towards it.

The blinds were not drawn, and the girl stood fascinated with what she saw.

A dinner party was in progress, Meg leaned against a tree watching eagerly all that went on.

The table was lighted by shaded candles, which cast a soft glow over the white cloth and gleaming silver and glass. Silver dishes were being handed round, and Meg, hungry and tired, could have wept with longing and weariness as she compared her lot, out in the dark, with that of the guests who apparently had more than enough of this world's good things. But she knew she must not give way to tears or her chance of earning food would be diminished.

The conversation round the dinner table suddenly stopped, as there floated into the room the air of "The Last Rose of Summer," sung in a rich contralto voice.

"What's that?" asked the host in a very vexed tone of voice. "Some beggar no doubt." Then turning to the butler he added, "Send her away, we don't want vagabonds about the premises."

"Oh don't," cried a girl, leaning forward to try to get a glimpse of the singer, "she has the most lovely voice. I thought you had arranged it on purpose to give us a treat."

"It's a rich contralto," said one of the guests. "She ought to be given a chance of being trained."

The host beckoned the butler to his side, while his guests were commenting one to another about the singer.

"Give her two shillings and send her away," he said in a low voice.

Dessert being now on the table, Dent, the butler, went to follow out his master's injunctions, but being a musical man, he was bent on hearing more of that wonderful voice that he had listened to as he had handed round the fruit.

He soon discovered the girl in the dark.

"The master he don't like no beggars about," he said in not too gentle a voice, "so I advise you to be off my girl. Come now are you one of a clan?"

"No, I'm by myself," answered Meg. "But if you'd be so good as to give me a glass of milk I'd pay you right well. I'll sing six songs straight off and you'd be lucky to hear 'em," she added with spirit, "I wouldn't do it if it wasn't that I'm just beat with tiredness and hunger."

Meg was looking up at Dent with a pair of eyes that made him feel, he told the servants afterwards, and that, together with her promise of singing and her very evident sincerity, worked on his feelings to such an extent, that he slipped his master's Florin into his pocket and led the way round to the back of the house. Then opening the kitchen door he introduced the girl with a flourish.

"This young lady wants some milk, and you'll be pleased to give it to her post haste, Mrs. Brown, or you'll lose the chance of your life."

The cook looked round quickly.

"Come now what are you up to with your tricks," she said sharply, "we don't want no beggars here. Look out, girl," she added, as Meg bewildered, was on the point of obeying Dent's invitation to enter, "you'll bring a lot of mud in I'll be bound; a pretty muddle I'll be in to-morrow. And to choose to-night of all nights when I'm so busy and don't know which way to turn."

But Dent would not be denied. He knew Mrs. Brown, and was in no way abashed by her protest.

"Sit down, my girl," he said pointing to a chair by the door, "and," he added turning to the cook, "if you've got a mother's heart you'll give her something to eat and drink, she's fit to drop."

"I'll pay you right well by singing to you," said Meg as she dropped into a chair, "only I can't do nothin' till I have a drink and food, I'm fairly beat."

"Where have you come from?" inquired Mrs. Brown, in a softened tone of voice.

"All the way from Boxley Common," she said, "and I haven't had a mite of food since the sun rose this mornin'."

"Poor dear," said the cook, her pity aroused, "I'll give you a bowl of soup; that's what I'll do."

Meg rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The warmth of the kitchen and the smell of the cooking was almost too much for her, but she revived on drinking the hot soup and looked up smiling at Mrs. Brown.

"I'll pay well for this," she said.

"Tut, tut, my dear. We don't want payment. You ain't fit to sing."

"Yes, I shall be all right in a moment, and when he comes back," nodding her head towards the inner door through which the butler had vanished, "I'll begin."

"Dent's gone with the coffee," said the cook, "and won't be here for a few minutes."

"I feel a lot better," said Meg, "and shall be able to sing fine. I'm making my way towards London to see Bostock," she added.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, leaning both hands on the kitchen table, and surveying the girl with amazement. "What do your father and mother say to that I should like to know?"

"They don't say nothin' for I've got none."

Mrs. Brown had a kind heart within her somewhat portly body, and looked with concern at her picturesque visitor.

"Come now, my dear," she said, "take my advice and don't do any such thing. London isn't the place for such as you. I'll speak to the mistress about you if you like and see if she can't do ought to help you."

Meg sprang up from her seat, snatching up Jem's hat which had fallen on the floor by her side.

"You'll do no such thing," she said quickly, "if you do I guess I'll have to leave you without payin' you for my food, though it would go against me after your kindness. But I won't have the help of anybody. I ain't bound to a single soul."

Mrs. Brown, taken aback by the excitability of her guest, tried to soothe her, promising to do nothing without her leave, and at last on the entrance of the other servants, who had been told by Dent that if they wanted to have a treat he advised them to go without fail to the kitchen, she sat down again and looked with interest at those who were to form her audience.

Dent, who took the credit to himself of giving his fellow servants this treat, placed chairs in a row, and acted as Master of the Ceremonies.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, looking from the row of maids to the young footman who stood by the door, "we are now about to listen to the finest voice that I've heard for a long time; and as I reckon myself to be a good judge of music and to know a fine voice when I hear it, having for years sung in the cathedral choir at Chichester, I can guarantee that a treat lies before you. This young lady will now be good enough to perform."

Meg rose, a smile lighting up her face as she looked around on her audience. She did not know what shyness was, and was so used to having her voice praised that she was not afraid of her hearers being disappointed.

"I'll sing fine," she said, "and will do what I can to pay for my good food; and I'm mighty thankful to Mr. Dent and Mrs. Brown for their kindness to me. I'll begin I think with a comic song to make you laugh." And in a moment the girl had sprung up on to the chair behind her and with a great deal of action sang through several songs, eliciting shouts of laughter from her audience.

Dent alone was disappointed. He was listening impatiently for the wonderful music that he had heard in her voice as she had sung in the dark of the garden. But he had not to wait long; the laughter had scarcely died away before the girl's whole expression of face changed, as she broke into the plaintive air of "Auld Robin Gray."

The pathos in the voice enchained the audience. They sat listening with rapt attention, and when the last verse was arrived at Mrs. Brown could bear it no longer but boldly took out her handkerchief and wiped her tears away.

At the close Dent looked round at the audience with a triumphant smile on his lips. He had not been wrong in his estimation of the fine quality of his protégé's voice; she had reduced Mrs. Brown to tears; that was a conquest in itself.

Meg left no time for an encore, but at once began, "The Last Rose of Summer." When this was finished the servants' delight could be contained no longer, they begged for it once more, and when the girl had stepped off her improvised platform, Dent rose to formally propose a vote of thanks.

Meanwhile Meg was quite unconscious of sundry winks and signs from Mrs. Brown, as one of the younger servants, after leaving the kitchen, returned holding a tidy hat behind her back till she had an opportunity of changing it with the old battered one that lay on the floor. It was only as Meg turned round to go that she saw what had happened, but instead of the delight that the cook and her fellow servant had been anticipating, the angry colour rushed into the girl's face as she exclaimed—

"Where's my hat?"

"My dear," explained the cook, "don't say nothing about it. We don't want no thanks. I've had that nice hat in my box for a long time to send to my niece in the shires, but you may have it and welcome."

Dent, who was mysteriously whispering to the servants as he went round collecting a few coins from them to add to his master's florin, did not see the distress on the girl's face, but Mrs. Brown did, and was puzzled.

"What is it, my dear?" she asked. "Don't you like it?"

"It was Jem's hat," murmured Meg. "I'd a deal rather have it than a new one, though it's mighty kind of you to think of givin' it to me."

"Jem's hat?"

"Yes, my pal Jem. I wouldn't lose it for all the world. You see," she added looking up at Mrs. Brown with something like tears in her eyes. "It's just all I've got."

"Is this young man your brother? I thought you was alone in the world?" said the cook.

"No, he's not my brother. He's my pal," answered the girl.

Mrs. Brown put her hand on Meg's shoulder. "Then take my advice, my girl, and don't have nought to do with him. I expect he's a worthless young man, isn't he?"

"He's the best man in the world," said the girl. "If it hadn't been for Jem I guess I should be dead by this time." Then seeing her questioner's perplexed face she added, "You don't understand, but it's all right. Don't you be afeared for me."

When a moment or two afterwards Dent placed five shillings in her hand, two of which he explained came from his master, Meg coloured.

"I don't think, it fair," she said looking down at the silver. "I've not sung as well as all that. You've paid me too high."

"Not a bit of it," said Dent. "You ought to make your fortune with that voice of yours, my girl."

Meg looked up with a laugh.

"It's wonderful kind of you all," she said, "and if ever you come to London to see Bostock's wild beasts, I'll ask that you shall come in to see me among the lions without paying a penny."

With a grateful smile she took up the old battered hat which had been returned to her, and made her way out into the dark garden. She felt happier for all the kindness that had been shown to her, and decided to stay somewhere near till the morning. So, hunting about for a place in which to sleep, she came upon a summer house, in which she lay down.

The hard floor was not comfortable, but Meg was not used to comfort, and her thoughts so engrossed her that she scarcely noticed the hardness. She had had an exciting day, and felt encouraged by her experience in the kitchen of the house close by. Jem had said the world was a wicked place; but, thought Meg, perhaps he was ignorant of the fact that there were many kind people in it notwithstanding, and if she had fared so well the first day why need she fear? With five shillings in her pocket, which to the girl, who had never possessed a penny of her own, seemed untold riches, she could face her future.

Then her thoughts Hew to the motherly face of Mrs. Brown, and she sighed. The care and kindness of the cook had created a longing in the heart of the singer. What must it be to have a mother! A real mother! Not like the false one that all these years she had believed to be hers. Where was her mother? And who was she? Meg's large eyes stared up into the dark sky which she could see from the summer house, spangled over with stars, and she sighed again. Her soul was athirst for something—someone—she knew not what. She was as:—

"An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry."

Meg awoke to find the sun streaming in upon her, and started up, fearful lest she should be discovered in the summer house. She gained the road without being seen. She need not have feared. It was only four o'clock and the world was still asleep.

The sense of freedom seemed to give her wings, and she walked the mile that lay between her and Minton in so short a time that she arrived before anyone was astir. It was to walk down the quiet streets and to see every door closed against her. It struck her as almost a city of the dead. The delightful sense of freedom died for a time within her, and she felt desperately lonely. She stood in the middle of the High Street looking first one way and then another, hesitatingly, and was almost afraid of the sound of her own footsteps.

Then she turned and fled back the way she had come, not resting till she had found a gate leading into a field where she could sit and wait for the sound of human life. She felt happier in the field, and the birds were amazingly tame. Not accustomed to being disturbed at that early hour by man, they came close to where she was sitting, and the girl was thankful for their company.

She decided that as she had enough money to carry her on for some time, she would only stay to get food at Minton, and then set out for the next town on the way to London. For the more she thought of Bostock's wild beasts and his advertisement for girls to train, of which she had heard in the public house where she had sung, the keener she became to apply for the post, and the more impatient of any delay.

[CHAPTER III]

ANGEL

MISS GREGSON dropped her knitting on to her knee and surveyed her former pupil critically as she stood leaning against the window. What a picture the girl made! The back of her head was particularly pretty, as little curls lay at the nape of her neck and shone with streaks of gold. She was slim and tall and graceful in all her movements.

"How pretty she is!" sighed her companion. "But how unstable!"

Miss Gregson had been sent for when Mr. Dennison, Sheila's uncle, had died, and knowing, and loving the girl she had hastened to Friars Court to find her former pupil full of tears and regrets that, during her uncle's lifetime she had not thought more of him and of his comfort.

She reproached herself with sobs for having indulged so much in her own pleasures and interests to the exclusion of his; and had been so absorbed in them that she had not noticed how much her uncle was failing in health till a week before he died.

Once aroused, however, she had thrown up all her engagements and had devoted herself to him. She was so depressed and unlike herself for the first week or two after his death, that Miss Gregson had hoped that the sharp lesson she had had was about to change her former pupil's whole view of life and duty, and was gratified when Sheila asked her to stay on with her and act as her chaperon.

During the weeks that followed Miss Gregson had looked in vain for her hopes to be realized. No sooner had the girl entered into her inheritance, for Mr. Dennison had left the whole of his property to her, than she regained her usual high spirits, and began to propound to her harried companion all kinds of wild and impossible schemes. Happily she tired of the thought of them before she had time to carry them out; but many a time her long-suffering chaperon felt her heart sink at some of the proposals. As now she sat gazing at the girl, who stood looking out of the window with a somewhat plaintive expression of face, Miss Gregson was taken aback by her companion suddenly turning round upon her, her eyes full of mischief and raillery.

"No," she said, "I shall never tire of you, you are so delightfully quaint."

"Quaint, my dear?" questioned Miss Gregson, taking up her knitting again.

"Yes, quaint. You would never guess the real reason that prompted me to ask you to stay on with me. It was your homoeopathic box that did it."

Miss Gregson looked up perplexed.

"You were delicious over that," continued Sheila. "Don't you remember one day when I was a child, Farmer Smith's bull ran at us, and after we had scrambled over the gate you made me sit down by the roadside, and taking your little box out of your pocket, insisted on us both taking ignatia to quiet our nerves? How I laughed over that afterwards."

Miss Gregson flushed and gave a forced laugh. She was not pleased, but would not let Sheila know this on any account.

"I do hope you still have that box, with the rows and rows of pilules. I'm sure you'll want it while you live with me. I am quite conscious that I am at times surprising, and that it would never do for a person with really weak nerves to act as my chaperon. Besides, those little pilules give me infinite amusement. Do you still believe in them? I hope you do."

Sheila had left the window and had sunk into an armchair, where she sat studying her companion's face with eyes full of laughter.

Miss Gregson looked up at the girl with a magnanimous smile. She felt vexed with her, but was not going to show it.

"I shall certainly not offer any more of them to you," she said, "as you laugh at them. But yes; I still have faith in them and always shall."

"Oh, how quaint you are! I shall certainly never tire of you, particularly as you still believe in those pilules." Then after a moment's pause the girl continued: "I really don't think I can call you Miss Gregson any longer; it is so formal. What is your Christian name; let me see, is it Maria?"

"Why do you want to know? You are not thinking I hope of calling me by it? I certainly should not approve of that."

"I shouldn't dare!" laughed Sheila. "You surprise me so by putting your foot down suddenly that I feel I really can't take liberties with you. But you have not told me your name. Am I right, is it Maria?"

"Maria? No, it's Angelina."

Sheila was on the point of giving a little shriek of laughter at the information. The name seemed so incongruous, but she stopped herself in time.

"Then I shall call you Miss Angel," she said, "or rather Angel without the Miss. You can't possibly think I am taking a liberty in calling you Angel. No one could. Indeed you ought to be flattered," she added, as her companion made a sound of remonstrance. "Besides you are an angel. You've been one to me anyhow."

"My dear, don't talk nonsense. I greatly prefer my surname."

"But I don't. It tires me to say Miss Gregson every time I want to call your attention. You are Angel from henceforth, and you mustn't mind, for it is really a great compliment."

Miss Gregson knew it was no use to expostulate, so resigned herself to her fate, fervently hoping that her erratic little friend would forget it. But in this she was disappointed.

[CHAPTER IV]

A DREAM OF LIONS

MEG was getting weary with her long tramp to London. Her first day had been her best. She had not met with such kindness or good fortune again, and as she made her way through towns and villages, only gathering just enough pennies by her singing, to provide her with a night's lodging and food, she began to wonder if she would ever reach London and stroke the paws of lions.

She had to walk for miles along country roads which, as far as earning money was concerned, was mere waste of time. And when she arrived at a town or village, so anxious was she to get to the end of her journey, that she stayed as short a time as possible and only waited to earn enough for the day.

She had now been on the tramp for a fortnight, and her boots were none the better for her hard walking. Every now and then, too, as she crept into some outhouse and lay down to sleep, the Autumn air struck chill, and she wondered, if Bostock refused to employ her, how she could manage to keep herself through the cold winter.

But the girl was naturally courageous, and she would not indulge often in these depressing thoughts. She tried to imagine herself sitting in the cage of lions, whip in hand, quelling the beasts with her eyes, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, among whom was Jem, and then leaving her work on a Saturday night with seven pounds in her pocket; for that was the sum promised to the successful candidate for training. She would then buy Jem a respectable warm coat and a hat with a proper crown, to say nothing of bright blue and red kerchiefs for his neck; and little Steve should be provided with plenty of luxuries and a comfortable lodging away from his Aunt and Uncle.

Meg would tramp for miles with a smile on her lips as she pictured those golden days of her dreams, and it was only when she was tired and hungry, and the realities of her life forced the dreams into the background, that she lost heart.

Sometimes a fear crossed her lest Jem should never find her. He was the one person in the whole world who cared whether she was dead or alive, and the bare possibility of their never meeting again had brought tears more than once into the eyes of the girl. But it was only when she was very tired that this possibility crossed her mind. For her faith in him was so firm, and her belief that he would look for her till he found her, so strong, that as a rule, she looked forward without doubting to meeting him in better circumstances.

Once, after a longer tramp than usual, when she had spent her last penny and yet felt, as she neared a village, that she had not the strength to earn one, she came to a little church, the door of which was open, and peeping in, the quiet and calm of the place suggested rest of which she was sorely in need. It was empty and the girl for the first time in her life crossed the threshold of a church.

She sank down on the first bench and looked about her wonderingly. Meg knew little more than a heathen; she knew that there was a God, whose name she had often heard taken in vain; and that was all. But she had a thirsty soul and often felt that there was some great and beautiful secret, known to many, of which she was ignorant. Night after night, as she lay sleeping under the stars, she would look up at the sky with a great wonder at what she saw, and with a yearning after something intangible. She had once spoken to Jem about her thoughts and he had suddenly looked down upon her with a bright smile, as if about to speak. Apparently however he could find no words in which to answer her.

Meg looked around the little church with interest; then crossing her arms on the back of the bench she dropped her head on them and fell fast asleep.

Suddenly she awoke to find that she was not alone. Several people were kneeling in front of her and a clergyman from the reading desk was saying the Confession, accompanied by the soft murmur of the congregation.

"'We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep.'"

At the words Meg buried her head again in her arms. "Lost Sheep!" That just seemed to describe her isolated condition. She sat sobbing till the close of the service, when she slipped out before the rest of the congregation.

Ten minutes afterwards she was singing in the village street to a crowd of children who stared at her open mouthed. Several men who had been working in the fields passed her on their way home, and more than one stayed to listen. One who was the worse for drink pushed his way into the crowd, calling out some rude remark to her. The hot blood rushed into the girl's face and she longed for Jem's strong arm to teach the brute a lesson. She stopped singing abruptly, and turned away, taking refuge in a kind woman's cottage.

This was the first of several disagreeable experiences that the girl passed through, and she found to her dismay that they had such an effect upon her that her courage began to dwindle. She grew nervous of tramping the lonely lanes, specially when it was dark, and even the thought of Bostock's beasts could not induce her to continue her journey after sunset, unless it was positively necessary to do so. If she could not find someone to take her in for the night she would look about her for a hay-rick or barn; anything was better, however rough the accommodation, than walking by herself along the lonely roads.

At times her tramp to London became almost a nightmare. It never seemed to grow nearer. She had had no idea that the distance was so great. She wondered sometimes if she would not give it up. But if she did, what then? The only thing for which she lived would be taken away from her. No one would care if she lay down in the road and died. No one was expecting her or wanted her, except Jem, and he was further away every day. If she was robbed of the thought of Bostock's wild beasts, she would be bereft of the one thing that made life worth living. No! She would not give up hope! She must persevere, and surely a time would come when she would be sitting calm and smiling among the lions, and would go home with seven pounds in her pocket!

[CHAPTER V]

A CREATURE OF IMPULSE

"THEY are coming," exclaimed Sheila as she glanced quickly over the letter in her hand.

The sun was shining into the breakfast room at Friars Court through the open windows. It was a long low room with beams across the ceiling, and panelled walls; and there was no nicer room in the house on a sunny morning. The French windows were wide open and from them could be seen the trees in the Park beyond the garden, and the hills in the background.

Sheila stood reading her letter with the morning sun shining on her pretty hair.

"Who are coming?" questioned Miss Gregson, as the girl looked up at her with a pleased smile.

"My six children. I read in some paper that there were hundreds of poor children in want of a change into the country from the very poorest of poor homes in London, and I wrote at once to enquire about them. The Society is so grateful and is sending down six on Monday. I am to have them for a fortnight. I only hope the weather will last for that time. Just fancy! A house full of children. Won't it be fun?"

"What a nice idea," said Miss Gregson. "When did you think of it?" Her mind flew to all the difficulties of the plan, but she was so pleased that Sheila should have thought of putting joy into the heart of six little children that she was determined to say nothing to discourage her.

"I only thought of it yesterday, and wired to the Society telling them to write by last night's post. I always believe in acting at once. Don't you?"

"I suppose they will send someone with the children to look after them," said Miss Gregson.

"No, that will be the fun. I mean to do everything for them myself, bathing them and putting them to bed included. If you do a thing at all I believe in doing it thoroughly. It would quite spoil it if there was a worker sent down with them."

Miss Gregson's heart sank. She knew how it would end. Sheila would be tired of them before the first week was out.

"Where are you going to put them? Is there not a large empty room which you could fit up with beds?"

"Yes. But I mean to give them the very best of everything. The girls I shall put in the West room, which I have just had papered with the rose pattern. It looks out on the rose garden you remember, and the boys shall be in the East gallery. There are several beds in the attics which can be brought down for them. You see I have thought it all out, Angel dear."

Sheila was now pouring out the coffee, and Miss Gregson had gone to the sideboard. She was aghast at the girl's arrangements, but she gave herself time to think over what to say by asking—

"Eggs and bacon or fish, my dear?"

"Is there nothing else? Jane is getting lazy. She gives us the same dishes every day. I'll have fish I think." Then she added, "I don't think I have looked forward to anything so much in my life. I shall tell Peter. He will be astonished that I have thought of anything so nice and useful."

She rose from the table as she spoke to fetch the fish Miss Gregson was helping, and put her arm round her chaperon impulsively.

"How glad I am that you are not a prude like that horrid old woman that came when you left me to go to your mother. She would very much have disapproved of my plan and would have placed all kinds of damping difficulties in its way. But I know you'll be just as interested in those children as I am, and won't mind a little noise in the house. I mean to give them such a good time. I'm desperately hungry," she added, as she took her seat at the table again. "It's the excitement."

"I think if I were you," mildly suggested Miss Gregson, "that I would have that long room furnished for them rather than the West room that you have just done up. You know they will be coming from very dirty homes and it will be scarcely fair to your visitors who come after them."

"The visitors must put up with that," answered Sheila calmly. "Of course the room will be thoroughly turned out and scrubbed when the children have gone; and just think what it will be to them to wake up in the morning and find themselves surrounded with roses! Roses nodding in at the window at them and roses on the walls. Oh, Angel dear, I do bless my Uncle for leaving me this place, and plenty of money with which to enjoy it. I had no idea how nice it would be."

Miss Gregson looked at the happy flushed face of her companion. How could she damp her enthusiasm by bringing forward its many drawbacks. The girl was full of delightful impulses, if only they would grow into good actions and last at least for a while.

"My dear, I think the plan is charming; and with a little forethought it may be made to work well, but it will need a lot of planning."

"Planning! forethought!" exclaimed Sheila impatiently, "I have planned everything I assure you. They are to come by the two o'clock train on Monday."

"Someone of course will bring them," said Miss Gregson. "I suppose she will at least stay the night?"

"No one will bring them. They are to be put under charge of the guard, and to come by a fast train that does not stop anywhere. I felt it would be so much better, you see, for them to have to depend upon me at once rather than on someone they know."

Miss Gregson sighed, and found before the first day of the visit was over that her sighs were justified. She was so exhausted after two or three hours of the company of the children, that she took the opportunity of slipping away to have a few minutes rest on the drawing-room sofa.

It was too late to expect callers, but nevertheless her sleep was disturbed by the entrance of an elderly cousin of Sheila's who came in and out of the house as he liked, and was welcomed wherever he went, as his life was spent in doing kindnesses. If anyone was in trouble, or in difficulties it was always Peter Fortescue who came to the rescue, and with his kind and fatherly manner and comforting smile inspired confidence. To Sheila he was father and brother in one, and she really leaned on his advice, though she was of such an independent nature that she would have confessed this to no one. Sheila amused Peter, but at the same time he more often shook his head over her vagaries, and never hesitated to tell her the truth. He sympathised greatly with Miss Gregson and pitied her.

Although he had disturbed her needed sleep the latter was thankful to see him.

"Where is Sheila?" he asked after shaking hands.

"In the garden. She has six poor little children from London for a fortnight! And with no one but ourselves to look after them. We have had a terrible afternoon, Mr. Fortescue."

Miss Gregson was flushed and tired.

"You look dead beat! An influx of six children to amuse and control is no laughing matter. I suppose they are difficult to manage?"

"They were almost dumb with wonder the first hour, but unhappily this soon wore off. They do not know the meaning of obedience. When I said it was time to go to bed they rebelled. They wanted to see the horses again, they said, and nothing would quiet them but to take them to the stables. How we are to survive a fortnight of this kind of thing I can't think."

"What are they doing now?"

"Sheila is telling them a story in the summer house, hoping to quiet them."

Peter rose.

"I'll go and find these rebels," he said smiling. "I wish my dear little cousin would ask my advice before she undertakes this kind of thing. But," he added with a laugh, "she is not fond of advice from me or anyone, else! I don't suppose she asked yours, did she?"

"Oh dear, no! That is the last thing she would do. She is a girl of such noble impulses, it is a pity that she acts on them without counting the cost."

"I daresay at this present moment she is enjoying it all hugely."

"She is perfectly happy; and you'll find her radiant. But to-morrow! Well there is no use looking forward, is there?"

"None whatever. I'll go and see how things are going."

Mr. Fortescue found the little party in the summer house and stood watching without being seen for a few minutes. Sheila was surrounded with the six children, who sat on the floor at her feet. Both Sheila and her audience were so engrossed that they did not notice Peter's approach.

Though he utterly disapproved of the plan, he could not help thinking what a pretty picture it made, and had Sheila been a girl who was ready to take the consequences of her own actions, and would persevere to the end, Mr. Fortescue could not think of a happier way in which to spend some of her large fortune, than to bring happiness into the lives of the poor little children that were listening to her story so attentively. But alas! her cousin knew Sheila too well to hope for a moment that Sheila would do her duty to them. The work would of course devolve on the poor tired woman on the drawing-room sofa.

Suddenly a small boy caught sight of the intruder.

He rose and made a dash at him and tried to kick him.

"Go away," he cried, "we don't want you."

Peter took hold of his arm and made him face him.

"You are a nice young man to behave like this," he said with a laugh. "You'll have to learn manners while you are here."

"I DON'T WANT TO BE MARRIED YET, JEM DEAR. I WANT

TO BE FREE, YOU SEE."

MEG

OF THE HEATHER

BY

EVELYN R. GARRATT

Author of "Peggy's Wolf," "Irene's Lame Dogs,"

"Against the World," "Free to Serve," etc., etc.

R.T.S., 4, Bouverie Street, London, E.C.4.

Contents

MEG OF THE HEATHER

[CHAPTER I]

THE STORM