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CHAPTER IV.

SIN AND ITS BITTER FRUITS.

MADE myself tidy as quickly as I could, and then ran down the three wide flights of stairs to the hall, which I have described. A door to the left stood open, and there in a room, half kitchen and half parlour, was a table spread for a meal, and a bigboned woman had just set down a large ham and a huge pie.

There seemed no chance of starving, and my three cousins-Robert, the one who had driven me from Cirencester; Charles; and another whom they called Paul, a mere child of twelve, with a mass of rough reddish hair and twinkling eyes-set themselves to eat in good earnest. Blanche did not appear, and there was not much talk. I was not hungry, but I was very thirsty, and the tea was refreshing.

Tea was in those days much dearer than now, for the duty had not been taken off, and I saw Barbara eyeing the teapot. When Paul said he should like some tea instead of cider, he was told to hold his tongue, for tea was only for those that were too fine to drink what other folks did.

I made my escape as soon as possible, and, beckoning Paul, asked him to show me the way to his mother's room.

"First door on the left," Charles called out. "Here, I'll show you."

I expected, as well I might, to find Blanche with her mother; but no, poor Aunt Bella was alone. Blanche had gone to spend an hour or two with some "friends" in the next village, Breame St. Denys.

"Before I sit down, I should like to put you comfortable,” I said. “I brought you some medicine; have you had it ?"

'No, there wasn't a glass. Blanche went to fetch one, and didn't come back. She is very pretty, isn't she, Cherry?"

The question provoked me. Pretty! Well, I said to myself, "pretty is that pretty does." I left the room in search of a glass, and with great difficulty found one. "I should like a jug of hot water,” I said, turning to Charlie, "if you can let me have one." Again Charlie befriended me, and carried the jug up for me.

"What do you think of mother?" he asked.

"I think she is very ill," I said.

"So do I," he replied; "and I tell you what, she is dying of neglect and a broken heart."

It would not answer my purpose to write here all the details of the next few hours or even days. Blanche returned to Cirencester. Barbara, indignant at receiving no wages, went off in a huff, and I was left with my sick aunt. It is strange that when we feel all depends on us, we have power to bear it— power we never suspected to be in us till the trial comes.

My poor aunt looked to me for everything, and made me the confidante of her many troubles in a way that is touching to me to think of even at this distance of time.

On the third day after my arrival at the Manor, the doctor came. He gave a start when he entered my aunt's room.

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"Why," he said, "what fairy has been here? I should not know the place for the same!"

I had only cleared away the rubbish, cleaned the windows, scrubbed the floor-little bits at a time, and made the bed to which my aunt was confined as neat as I could. Her long hair was brushed and combed, and plaited tight under a nice white cap, and I had mended her night-gowns, so that she could have a proper change. The doctor signed to