the three girls will be in to supper; they have gone to Shirley Woods – a long-promised treat.”
“The three girls!” said Augusta, raising her calm blue eyes. “Then there are four girls now in the house?”
“Counting you, there are.”
“But I mean without me.”
“I do not understand you, dear.”
“Well, Aunt Jessie, there is a girl up in the schoolroom. She says her name is Nan – Nan Esterleigh.”
“Little Nan,” cried Mrs. Richmond. “Did not she go with the others?”
“No; I found her in the schoolroom when I arrived.”
“I wonder what can be wrong with the child.”
“I don’t think much; she has slipped and hurt her foot, but it is nothing.”
“I must go up to see about her.”
“Oh! please, not now, just when you have sent for me, and I am longing to have a talk with you. Nan was as happy as possible when I came down here. I left her playing with her little dog, and seated by the fire.”
“If you can assure me she is not in pain I will not go to her till after tea,” said Mrs. Richmond; “I am rather tired, having had a lot of running about this morning. But what a pity the poor child never told me of this! How strange of Miss Roy to have gone off without her!”
“I know nothing about that, of course,” replied Augusta. “But tell me about her, Aunt Jessie. Is she any relation? Does she live here now? I never heard of her before.”
“She does live here, Augusta, and I hope she will continue to do so.”
“How mysterious you look, Aunt Jessie! Is there any story about her?”
“In one sense there is, Augusta; but I do not care to talk about it. The dear child is a great pleasure to me. We all love her very much.”
“But do tell me, please, Aunt Jessie – do. I so love to hear anything mysterious!”
“There is nothing mysterious, darling; but perhaps, as you have asked me, I may as well tell. Nan is the dear little daughter of a great friend of mine, a Mrs. Esterleigh, who died about three months ago. At her death Nan came here.”
“Oh!” said Augusta.
She was silent for a minute, thinking.
“And is she no relation?” she asked then.
“No; only the daughter of a very great friend.”
“Is she, Aunt Jessie, a – rich little girl?”
“Rich in friends, I hope, Augusta; but rich, poor darling, in nothing else. Her mother did not leave any money behind her. But it is a great pleasure to have Nan, and I hope she will live here always.”
“Then you have adopted her.”
“Practically; only the matter cannot be fully arranged for a time.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“There are some other people – friends of her father’s – who have also the right to adopt Nan.”
“What a curious, romantic story! People do not as a rule want to adopt little penniless girls.”
“I want to adopt her; and I do not quite like that tone in your voice, Augusta. Nan is not under the slightest obligation to me, and I wish you to understand that. Her mother once on a most important occasion in my life did me a kindness which I can never, never forget, and for her sake nothing that I could do for her child would be too much.”
“And you will not tell me what it is?”
“I have told no one yet. When Nan is older she shall know.”
“And these other people?”
“The Asprays. I hope Nan will not go to them. They have quite another reason for wishing to have her as one of the family. Now, do not ask me any more. I hear our guests arriving. Will you stay with me, or go upstairs to Nan?”
“I think I will stay if you do not mind; I can go up to Nan later on. What an interesting story! And what a dear aunty you are!”
Augusta rose as she spoke, and kissed Mrs. Richmond on her cheek.
Several ladies came into the room, and one and all admired Augusta; for her manners were good, and she had an attentive, thoughtful way which stood her in excellent stead with her elders. By-and-by she went upstairs of her own accord, and then the ladies turned to Mrs. Richmond and praised her, saying what a very nice girl they considered her.
When Augusta went back to the schoolroom she found that Nan’s foot was really very painful.
“I must not walk any more,” she said. “What have you been doing, Augusta? Have you had a good time?”
“I have been listening to a story about you,” said Augusta in a marked voice.
She looked full at Nan, who felt her heart beat, and who coloured uncomfortably. Just then there came the sound of laughter and of voices, and the next instant the two little girls and their governess entered the room. They brought big baskets of violets and primroses. The air of the schoolroom was full of the sweet scent of the violets. Kitty rushed up to Nan and kissed her: then they both saw Augusta, who was standing in the background, and uttered a shout of delight. Augusta went up to them, kissed them both, and stood close to Nan.
“I must run up at once to see how Pip is,” cried Kitty. “I have been thinking of the darling all the time I have been coming home. I wonder if he is better. Do not keep me, please, Nan. I won’t be a minute, but I want just to see how he is.”
She was dashing out of the room when Nan’s voice came faintly – very faintly – on the air:
“Kitty, one minute first!”
“Little fool!” said Augusta. She bent down close to the child and laid her hand across her mouth.
Nobody else had heard Nan’s low tones. Nora followed Kitty out of the room; she also ran upstairs to see the sick rat.
“You are too late now,” said Augusta. “Just keep your own counsel. Pretend that your foot is aching; that will account for your queer looks. And, by-the-bye, I let Mrs. Richmond understand that you had slipped on the stairs and strained your foot, and you must stick to the story when she asks you about it. Now then, just keep your courage, hold your tongue, and all will be well.”
There came a piercing cry from poor Kitty, who rushed into the room, her face white, and tears in her big eyes.
“Pip is dead!” she said.
She flung herself into a chair, panting slightly. It was not her nature to cry, and she did not cry now; but her face looked white and startled. Augusta gave her a quick look. Nan shivered all over with sympathy for Kitty and longing to speak; but Augusta’s eyes met hers, and there was such a world of warning and determination in their glance that she succumbed.
“Why,
