mrs. cameron’s house in bath was decidedly old-fashioned. it was a large, solemn, handsome mansion; its windows shone from constant cleaning; its paint was always fresh, its venetian blinds in perfect order.

when a certain wild, untidy, almost disreputable-looking girl ran up its snow-white steps, and rang its highly polished brass bell, the neat parlor maid who answered her summons stared at her, and doubted a good deal if mrs. cameron could see her.

“you had better step into the hall for a moment,” said the maidservant, “and i’ll inquire if my missis is at leisure; but if it’s the new housemaid’s place you’ve come after——”

flower gasped; she drew herself up, raised her hand, and took off her small black velvet cap.

“you forget yourself!” she said, with a haughtiness which did not ill become her, notwithstanding her untidy and dishevelled state. “my name is flower dalrymple, and i have come from sleepy hollow. please let your mistress know directly.”[pg 136]

the parlor maid, who saw her mistake, was profuse in apologies.

she showed flower into a dismal-looking dining room, and went upstairs.

“who is it, ann?” asked an anxious voice as she prepared to ascend the richly-carpeted stairs.

a door was opened at the end of the passage, and a fusty, dusty-looking little man put in an appearance.

“who is it, ann? any one for me?”

“a young lady as wants to see the missis, sir. oh, mr. cameron! what a deal of dust you has brought out into the ’all!”

the little man looked meekly down at his dusty garments.

“i have just been unpacking my last crate of curiosities from china, ann. where is the young lady? perhaps she would like to see the relics.”

“no, sir, that i’m sure she wouldn’t; she’s all blown and spent like. she’s for all the world like a relic herself.”

ann tripped lightly upstairs, and mr. cameron, pushing his spectacles high up on his bald forehead, looked with an anxious glance to right and left. then very quickly on tiptoe he crossed the hall, opened the dining-room door, and went in.

“how are you, young lady? if you are very quick, i can get you into my sanctum sanctorum. i am just unpacking chinese relics. i trust, i hope, you are fond of relics.”

flower started to her feet.

“i thought, i certainly thought, polly said mrs. cameron,” she remarked. “i don’t think i shall be at all afraid to live with you. i don’t exactly know what chinese relics are, but i should love to see them.”

“then quick, my dear, quick! we haven’t a minute to spare. she’s sure to be down in a jiffy. now then, step on tiptoe across the hall. ann has the quickest ears, and she invariably reports. she’s not a nice girl, ann isn’t. she hasn’t the smallest taste for relics. my dear, there’s an education in this room, but no one, no one who comes to the house, cares to receive it.”

while the little man was talking, he was rushing across the wide hall, and down a long passage, flower’s hand clasped in his. finally he pushed open a baize-lined door, hastily admitted himself and flower, and closed it behind them. the sanctum sanctorum was small, stuffy, dusty, dirty. there were several chairs, but they were all piled with relics, two or three tables were also crammed with tokens of the past. flower was very weary, the dust and dirt made her sneeze, and she looked longingly for even the smallest corner of a chair on which to seat herself.

“i do want some breakfast so badly,” she began.

“breakfast! my love, you shall have it presently. now then, we’ll begin. this case that i have just unpacked contains teeth and a small portion of a jawbone. ah! hark![pg 137] what is that? she is coming already! will that woman never leave me in peace? my love, the object of my life, the one object of my whole life, has been to benefit and educate the young. i thought at last i had found a pupil, but, ah, i fear she is very angry!”

the sound of a sharp voice was heard echoing down the stairs and along the passage, a sharp, high-pitched voice, accompanied by the sharper, shriller barking of a small dog.

“zeb! i say, zeb! zebedee, if you have taken that young girl into your sanctum, i desire you to send her out this moment.”

the little man’s face grew pale; he pushed his spectacles still higher on his forehead.

“there, my love, do you hear her? i did my best for you. i was beginning your education.”

“zeb! zeb! open the door this minute,” was shouted outside.

“you’ll remember, my love, to your dying day, that i showed you three teeth and the bit of jawbone of a chinaman who died a thousand years ago.”

“zeb!” thundered the voice.

“yap! yap! yap!” barked the small dog.

“you must go, my dear. she’s a powerful woman. she always has her way. there, let me push you out. i wouldn’t have her catch sight of me at this moment for fifty pounds.”

the green baize door was opened a tiny bit, a violent shove was administered to flower’s back, and she found herself in the arms of mrs. cameron, and in extreme danger of having her nose bitten off by the infuriated scorpion.

“just like zebedee!” exclaimed the good lady. “always struggling to impart the dry bones of obsolete learning to the young! come this way, miss—miss—what’s your name?”

“dalrymple—flower dalrymple.”

“an outlandish title, worthy of sleepy hollow. i have not an idea who you are, but come into the dining-room.”

“might i—— might i have a little breakfast?”

“bless me, the child looks as if she were going to faint! ann, ann, i say! down, scorpion! you shall have no cream if you bark any more. ann, bring half a glass of port wine over here, and make some breakfast for miss—miss rymple as fast as you can.”

“dalrymple, please!”

“don’t worry me, child. i can’t get my tongue round long names. now, what is it you are called? daisy? what in the world have you come to me for, daisy?”

“i’m flower——”

“well, and isn’t daisy a flower? now then, daisy rymple, tell your story as quickly as possible. i don’t mind giving you breakfast, but i’m as busy as possible to-day. i’ve six committee meetings on between now and two o’clock. say your say, daisy, and then you can go.”

“but i’ve come to stay.”[pg 138]

“to stay? good gracious! scorpion, down, sir! now, young lady, have you or have you not taken leave of your senses?”

“no, really. may i tell you my story?”

“if you take ten minutes over it; i won’t give you longer time.”

“i’ll try to get it into ten minutes. i’m an australian, and so is david. david is my brother. we came over in the australasia about six weeks ago. dr. maybright met us in london, and took us down to sleepy hollow.”

“bless the man!—just like him. had he any responsible matron or spinster in the house, child?”

“i don’t know; i don’t think so. there was helen and polly and——”

“i don’t want to hear about polly! go on; your ten minutes will soon be up. go on.”

“a couple of days ago we went on a picnic—i have a way of getting into awful passions—and polly—polly vexed me.”

“oh, she vexed you? you’re not the first that young miss has vexed, i can tell you.”

“she vexed me; i oughtn’t to have minded; i got into a passion; i felt awful; i ran away with baby.”

“goodness me! what is the world coming to? you don’t mean to say you have dared to bring the infant here, daisy?”

“no, no. i ran away with her on to the moors. i was so frightened, for i thought baby had died. then maggie came, and she saved her life, and she was brought home again.”

“that’s a good thing; but i can’t see why you are troubling me with this story.”

“yesterday morning i gave baby back to dr. maybright. he’s not like other people; he looked at me, and his look pierced my heart. he said something, too, and then for the first time i began to be really, really sorry. i went up to my room; i stayed there alone all day; i was miserable.”

“served you right if you were, daisy.”

“in the evening i was so hungry, i went down for food. i met firefly; she told me the worst.”

“then the baby died? you really are an awful girl, daisy rymple.”

“no. the baby is pretty well, and polly, who sprained her foot running after me, is pretty well; but it’s—it’s dr. maybright—the best man i ever met—a man who could have helped me and made me a—a good girl—he’s very, very ill, and they think he may die. he wasn’t strong, and he was out all night looking for baby and me, and he got a bad chill, and he—he may be dead now. it was my doing; fly told me so.”

flower laid her head on the table; her long sustained fortitude gave way; she sobbed violently.

her tears stained mrs. cameron’s snowy table-linen; her head was pressed down on her hands; her face was hidden. she was impervious in her woe to any angry words or to the furious barking of a small dog.

at last a succession of violent shakes recalled her to herself.

“will you sit up?—spoiling my damask and shedding tears into the excellent coffee i have made for you. ah, that’s better; now i can see your face. don’t you know that you are a very naughty, dangerous sort of girl?”

“yes, i know that quite well. mother always said that if i didn’t check my passion i’d do great mischief some day.”

“and right she was. i don’t suppose the table-linen will ever get over those coffee stains mixed with tears. now, have the goodness to tell me, daisy, or ivy, or whatever you are called, why you have come to tell this miserable, disgraceful story to me.”

“fly said they none of them could love me now.”

“i should think not, indeed! no one will love such a naughty girl. what have you come to me for?”

“i thought i could stay with you for a little, until there was another home found for me.”

“oh, ah! now at last we have come to the bottom of the mystery. and i suppose you thought i’d pet you and make much of you?”

“i didn’t. i thought you’d scold me and be very cross. i came to you as a punishment, for polly always said you were the crossest woman she ever met.”

“polly said that? humph! now eat up your breakfast quickly, daisy. i’m going out. don’t stir from this room until i come back.”

mrs. cameron, who had come down-stairs in her bonnet, slammed the dining-room door after her, walked across the hall, and let herself out. it did not take her many minutes to reach the telegraph office. from, there she sent a brief message to helen maybright:

“sorry your father is ill. expect me this evening with daisy rymple.”