style="font-size:15px;"> “What are you after now?” she said sharply.
“I’se going to put on your stockin’s for you,” he replied, “and then you needn’t mind about vows, ’cept that you’d better not make any more, till it gets warmer, any way.”
Christabel said nothing. In her heart she was very thankful for this unexpected release from the silly predicament she had got herself into, and deeper down still – for in that wayward little heart of hers there were better things than she allowed herself to be conscious of – she was really touched by her small brother’s kindness. So she said nothing, but watched him with some amusement as he cleverly drew on the stockings – toes first, then heels, sighing a little as he got to the long legs, so that Chrissie at this stage condescended to give a pull or two herself. And at last the task was triumphantly accomplished, and she stood upright and slipped the now clothed toes into the shoes lying in readiness.
“You’d better be a boy at a boot-shop, Japs,” she remarked. “You’re so clever.”
Jasper looked up with great gratification at this rather meagre acknowledgment of his services. And then, somehow, the sight of his flushed face and smiling eyes got hold of Chrissie – the naughty, foolish fit of obstinacy left her – she stooped and kissed him.
“You’ve been very kind,” she whispered, and Jasper threw his arms round her and hugged her.
Thanks and kisses did not come in his way as often as they ought to have done.
“I’ll be very quick now,” Christabel added. “I’ll be ready for Nurse to do my hair in five minutes. Run off, Japs, and tell her so. No – I’d rather you didn’t,” and she hesitated.
Jasper stood still and looked at her, his legs rather wide apart, his face solemn.
“I wasn’t going to tell nobody,” he replied.
“Well, run away then,” Christabel repeated, and off he went.
She was a quick and clever child when she chose to give her mind to anything, little more than the five minutes had passed when she opened the door of communication and called out.
“I’m ready for my hair. Do you hear, Nurse?”
Poor Nurse required no second summons. She had really been growing uneasy about Christabel, and almost afraid that she herself would be obliged to give in, in spite of her promise to Mrs Fortescue. So the sound of Chrissie’s voice came as a welcome surprise. She was a kind and good young woman, but not possessed of much tact, otherwise she would not have greeted the little girl as she did on entering the room.
“That’s right, Miss Chrissie,” she exclaimed with a smile; “I was sure you’d think better of it in a few minutes, and not force me to have to complain to your dear Mamma, when there’s trouble in the house, too.”
Instantly Christabel’s gentler feelings took flight, like a covey of startled birds. She turned upon Nurse.
“That’s not true,” she said rudely. “You know you weren’t sure of anything of the kind. You know me too well to think I’d go back from what I said, and, as it happens, I didn’t. I’ve not put on my stockings myself this morning, but I won’t tell you anything more. And I do wish you’d leave off talking rubbish about trouble in the house. There’s no trouble. We didn’t care for Dad’s old uncle, who was as deaf as a post and whom we scarcely ever saw, and we can’t be expected to.”
Nurse was silent. She went on tying the ribbons round Chrissie’s abundant locks, without seeming to pay attention to this long tirade.
“Can’t you speak?” said the little girl, irritated by her manner.
“Yes, Miss Chrissie,” was the reply, “I can, but I would rather not. I don’t think what you say is at all pretty or nice.”
Chrissie gave a little laugh.
“Thank you,” she said. “Well, one thing’s certain: it’ll be ever so much jollier at Fareham the next time we go – you’ll see.”
This was too much for Nurse.
“Oh, Miss Chrissie,” she exclaimed, “and your poor aunt! She’s getting to be an old lady now, and lived all her life with Sir Percy such a devoted sister. You should care for her.”
Christabel’s face softened.
“Well, yes, I do love Aunt Margaret,” she said, “but I never thought she’d mind so very much. I should think she’d be glad to be free. Why, she can come and stay with us in London now as much as she likes, in turns with us going to Fareham, though, of course, Fareham will be Daddy’s very own now.”
Again Nurse was silent, but this time Chrissie took no notice of it, as she was growing very hungry as well as cold, and very glad to escape into the next room, where breakfast was now quite ready.
Leila and Jasper were already there, and as Chrissie ran in, Roland, the eldest of the four children, made his appearance at the other door. He was a tall, handsome boy of nearly fourteen – shortly to go to a public school, but, for the present, working in preparation for this, under a private tutor. He was dark, like Leila, Chrissie’s reddish-brown hair and eyes making the middle colouring between these two elder ones and fair, blue-eyed little Jasper.
It was not often, as a rule, that the nursery was honoured by Roland’s presence at breakfast, but he preferred it to solitary state in the dining-room just now, when the death of their old uncle had called away his father and mother for some days. And, indeed, nobody could have wished for a pleasanter room than this cheerful nursery, with its large, old-fashioned bow-window facing the park, the pretty paper on the walls, white-painted furniture, bright fire, and neatness; though, as regards this last attraction, I fear first thing in the morning was the only hour at which one could be sure of finding it!
Poor Nurse and Fanny! I should be sorry to say how many times a day they were called upon to “tidy up.”
“I’ve a letter from Mother,” Roland announced, after Jasper, as the youngest, had said grace for the party. “They got there all right.”
“Is that all she says?” asked Chrissie, for Leila was already buried in a book which she had propped against her breakfast-cup, only moving it from time to time as she drank her tea. “When are they coming back? She said she’d tell us as soon as she could.”
“They’d only been there a few hours when she wrote. I don’t know how you could expect her to say – you’re so babyish, Chrissie,” said Roland.
“Babyish,” she repeated scornfully, “I know what Mummy said better than you do. I’ll write and ask her to tell me, not you.”
Roland by this time had got out the letter and was reading it again.
“As it happens,” he said, good-naturedly enough, though his tone was decidedly “superior,” “she does say something about it, and something else that I don’t understand,” and the boy’s face clouded a little.
“She seems very bothered,” he replied doubtfully, still fingering the sheet of paper. “I think both she and Dad were pretty worried before they left.”
“Well,” said Chrissie, “I suppose they had to be. I suppose they had to care for Uncle Percy. P’raps he was nicer before he got so
