Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

"WHAT IS THE MATTER, LITTLE GIRL?"

BY

AMY LE FEUVRE

AUTHOR OF "PROBABLE SONS," "TEDDY'S BUTTON," "ODD,"
"JILL'S RED BAG," ETC, ETC.

WITH THREE ILLUSTRATIONS BY SYDNEY COWELL

SECOND IMPRESSION

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 BOUVERIE STREET; & 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

1905

STORIES

BY

AMY LE FEUVRE.

Odd Made Even. 3s. 6d.
Heather's Mistress. 3s. 6d.
On the Edge of a Moor. 3s. 6d.
The Carved Cupboard. 2s. 6d.
Jill's Red Bag. 2s.
A Little Maid. 2s.
A Puzzling Pair. 2s.
Dwell Deep; or, Hilda Thorn's Life Story. 2s.
Legend Led. 2s.
Odd. 2s.
Bulbs and Blossoms. 1s. 6d.
His Little Daughter. 1s. 6d.
A Thoughtless Seven. 1s.
Probable Sons. 1s.
Teddy's Button. 1s.
Bunny's Friends. 1s.
Eric's Good News. 1s.

London:
The Religious Tract Society
4, Bouverie Street.

Contents

CHAPTER

I. "THE FIRST STEP TO SERVICE"

II. "IN SERVICE TO MY AUNT"

III. "I'M READY FOR MY PLACE"

IV. COUNTRY MUD

V. "TOO FAITHFUL"

VI. A "HEATHEN STOCKING"

VII. "A FELLOW-GIRL"

VIII. "A REAL LITTLE HOME MISSIONARY"

IX. "I'M A-GOIN' BACK TO LONDON"

X. "A SICK CAPTAIN!"

XI. "A LITTLE TRUMP!"

XII. VISITORS

XIII. THE COLLECTION

List of Illustrations

"WHAT IS THE MATTER, LITTLE GIRL? CAN'T YOU GET A PLACE?" Frontispiece

"THEN I COME HOME WITH A BROKEN 'EART"

"DON'T YOU LAY YOUR FINGER ON IT, FOR I'VE GOT MY EYE ON YER!"

A Little Maid

"THE FIRST STEP TO SERVICE"

SHE sat on a doorstep in Bone Alley. Her surroundings were such as you may see any day in that part of London, which is known to the upper class as the Slums. And she herself was not a striking feature in her landscape. Nine out of ten people would have passed her by, without a look or thought.

She was dressed in a brown skirt, a black bodice, and a faded blue felt hat, with a wisp of black ribbon and a ragged crow's feather stuck jauntily in on one side. Her arms were hugging her knees, and two very dilapidated old boots rested themselves contentedly on a medley of orange-peel, broken bottles, and old tins. Her eyes were big and blue, her hair a nondescript brown, hanging in straight wisps round her small pinched face. But she was a dreamer.

A close observer would have seen that her soul was far away from her surroundings. A rapt smile crossed her face, and a light came into her eyes that nothing in Bone Alley would draw there. Then she gave her thin shoulders a little shake, and frowned.

"Peggy, you're gettin' up too high; come down!"

She was accustomed to talk to herself. There was no one near her. Further down, a barrel-organ was surrounded by a circle of dancing children.

"You'd best be movin', Peg," she continued. "Aunt will be callin' yer."

Slowly she got up, and then, with a little stretch of her long thin limbs, she shuffled up a steep staircase through an open doorway. Up, up, up! Three long flights of stairs. Different smells issued from the many doors she passed, and one could pretty well guess from them the employments of the occupants within—soapsuds, cabbage, fried bacon, and fried fish. Nearly every one at this time seemed to be cooking, for it was one o'clock, and dinners were about to be served.

At the very top floor Peggy paused. Not for breath, for her lungs and heart were sound; but her words explained it.

"Now, Peg, don't you say nothink at all when she rows yer—nothink, or you won't get out agen!"

She opened the door abruptly. It was a poor-looking room, but clean and tidy. A bed near the window contained a cripple woman, who was knitting away busily. She looked round at the child with a heavy frown, and her voice had a peevish nagging note in it.

"How much longer am I to wait for yer, I'd like ter know? Look at the fire, you lazy baggage! You be no more use to me since yer left school than you were before. What 'ave you been a-doin'? Me, slavin' and knittin' myself silly to give you food and clothes, and you out in the streets from morn to night! Dancin' round that organ, I'll be bound! Oh, if I were given the use of my legs agen, wouldn't I make you dance to a different toon!"

Peggy said nothing, but with a clatter and bustle she made up the fire, and then prepared the midday meal. Potatoes and half a herring, with a cup of tea, formed their dinner. Mrs. Perkins kept up a running stream of complaints and abuse, which Peggy hardly seemed to hear. She washed up, tidied the hearth, fetched her aunt some more wool from a drawer, and then slipped away towards the door.

"Where are you goin'?" demanded Mrs. Perkins. "I'll be wantin' you to take a parcel for me to the shop, an' Mrs. Jones have bin in to arsk yer to mind her baby. She have to go to 'orspital for her eye-dressin'!"

"I'll mind her baby now," said Peggy cheerfully, "and then I'll be ready for yer parcel!"

She ran down the stairs unheeding the remainder of her aunt's talk. On the next floor she met a stout woman, just opening her mouth for a call.

"I'm a-comin', Mrs. Jones. Was you wantin' me? Where's h'Arthur? Shall I take him out?"

Arthur was a big heavy boy of two years, but Peggy lifted him in her arms and staggered down the stairs bravely. Once in the street, she put him down on his feet.

"We'll come and see Mrs. Creek," she said. "I'm a-longin' to have a talk with 'er!"

Arthur gurgled assent, and stumbled along contentedly by her side.

She marched down the alley, then turned a corner into a more respectable street, presently paused before a tiny sweet-shop.

It was a clean little place; and behind the small-counter sat a cheery-faced little woman with spectacles on her nose and a work-basket by her side. How Mrs. Creek could live and thrive in such a neighbourhood was a mystery to many. The children loved her almost as well as her sweets. She had no belongings, but eked out her scanty living by mending and making for some of her bettermost neighbours. A card in her window asserted—

"PLAIN SEWING TAKEN IN."

But Mrs. Creek's needle was required for many varieties, from piecing a small corduroy breeches to trimming a bonnet; and darning stockings was her relaxation. She and Peggy were the greatest friends. She knew, though the cripple aunt was a respectable hard-working woman, she was a harsh task-mistress. Peggy waited on her aunt hand and foot, and never got a bright, pleasant word from her.

"Please 'm," began Peggy, dragging her small charge into the shop, "I'll have a halfpenny barley-stick for h'Arthur. And, please 'm, will you tell me once agen how you first went to service."

"Bless your little heart! Sit ye down, child, on that there empty box. And there's the barley-stick. Why, what a fine boy he is growing!"

Then she shook her head reprovingly at Peggy.

"You've no right to be longin' after forbidden things, dearie. Your aunt can't spare you, an' she have told you so."

"Yes," said Peggy, with eager eyes, and a little flush on her sallow cheeks; "but I dreams and dreams of it. An' it may come one day. Teacher told me on Sunday we can arsk God anythink, and—and I'm a—arskin' of Him to manage it for me. Tell me agen of your clo's, Mrs. Creek. They do sound lovely."

Mrs. Creek gave a little low laugh.

"I minds that I thought 'em so. 'Twas nursery maid at the Rectory I went to, and I couldn't sleep at night for thinkin' on it. I had two lilac print gowns, with sprigs of daisies over 'em, and four white aprons, and two pair of home-knitted stockings, and one pair o' new boots, and a pair of low-heeled slippers, and three white caps, and a black straw hat with ribbon, and a white straw bonnet for Sundays, and a grey linsey gown, and a neat black coat—"

She paused for breath, and Peggy gave a rapt sigh.

"Oh," she said, clasping her hands, "how rich yer mother must 'ave been! How lovely to feel they was all yours! Go on, 'm, please. Tell 'ow you felt when you treaded on carpets!"

"They was lovely and soft," the old woman said meditatively; "an' the nursery with its big fire and bright brass fender, an' the pictures and toys, an' the red-cushioned rockin'-cheer, I seem as I can see it all now. The nurse were tall and stern, but the little ladies, there were three on 'em, they were always ready for a game with me. And I used to swing 'em on the lawn, and help 'em to clean out their rabbit hutches. Dear life! What a happy little maid I was!"

Peggy gulped down a sob.

Mrs. Creek looked at her and saw that tears were running down her cheeks.

"It seems like 'eaven," she murmured, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand and hoisting Arthur on her lap, as the little urchin was getting restless. "How little could you go out to service with, 'm, please? If you was ever so careful, wouldn't one print dress be enough? You could wash it out careful when you went to bed—leastways, any dirty patches you could."

Mrs. Creek shook her head.

"If you goes to ladies' service you must 'ave an outfit," she remarked importantly.

"Like as if you were goin' to marry!" said Peggy, with another big sigh.

"But," said Mrs. Creek, "'tisn't many got such a chance as I had. I was country-born, ye see, an' my father were under-gardener at the Hall."

Peggy's face became gloomy.

"Tis no use hopin', is it? I 'ave saved up some pence, 'm. Just what I've earned proper, but see—'ow many before I could get a gown? Why, hundreds, wouldn't it be?"

She produced out of the bosom of her shabby bodice a dirty-looking piece of rag; unknotting it carefully, she counted out sevenpence halfpenny.

Mrs. Creek nodded and smiled.

"That's a beginnin', dearie. Maybe by the time yer aunt will be wantin' yer no longer, you'll have a goodish sum."

Peggy brightened up.

"And 'ow did you stick your caps on, please 'm? Did you have longer hair than mine?"

"Well, yes, I think I had a fine lot in those days, and I plaited it neatly and had a nice flat cap, not one o' these cockatoo sort o' arrangements that girls wear nowadays."

"And tell me now about the rooms, please 'm!"

Mrs. Creek began her descriptions, that had already been given to Peggy many and many a time before; but the child listened with open mouth and eyes, until small customers began to crowd in. It was Saturday, and fathers had come home from their work with pence to spare. Mrs. Creek had to put aside her reminiscences for the time, and, after waiting a little longer, Peggy reluctantly departed with her charge.

A sharp-faced girl soon joined her outside.

"'Ulloo, Peg! H'aint seen you for years."

"Where have you bin?" demanded Peggy.

"I've j'ined the boot factory, and, I say! H'our Emma has gone to be a slavey!"

"Has she? Where? I wish I could!"

"You be a pair o' sillies, the two on yer! Catch me bein' a slavey! No, not I!"

"Where has Emma gone?"

"To the pork-butcher's. An' her missis hit 'er with a bootbrush las' Saturday. I'd like to have had that done to me!"

"When I goes to service," Peggy said loftily; "I shall go out to real ladies, who don't keep no shops."

"I'd start with Buckingham Palace," said the factory girl witheringly; "but p'raps that wouldn't be 'igh enough for yer!"

Peggy promptly parted company with her. She turned into a broad street with her little charge, and sauntered past lines of shops, occasionally pointing out some desirable objects to him, but for the most part pursuing her thoughts in silence. At last a smart draper's brought her to a standstill. Peggy often amused herself by pretending she had come out with a full purse to buy an outfit for service. Now she could not resist playing at the same old game.

"Now, Peggy, take your choice. There are prints there, pink and blue, but no dark lilac like Mrs. Creek had. But that's a pretty stripe over in the corner. You'd look fine in that. And oh my! What cheap caps, with real broidery round 'em, and only twopence three farthings each!"

She paused, and looked at the caps longingly.

"If I could try 'em on, just to see how I looked, and if I could pin it on proper! Why shouldn't I buy one? There now! Come on, h'Arthur, and I'll do it, this very minit!"

Into the shop she went with the air of a duchess. If there was anything that Peggy loved, it was shopping. "Tis the only time folks is civil," she would say. "They don't bawl at me, nor yet scold then, and it makes me feel as if I'm a bigger person than them!"

"I wish to see some of them there caps, please," she said, taking a seat at the counter, with her chin well tilted up. "Caps for service I want."

"Certainly," said a young woman politely, "here are a cheap lot just come in."

"I hope they washes," Peggy said, up one on the tip of her finger. "Sweepin' rooms do make one's caps so dirty," she added, with a knowing shake of her head.

"Oh, they wash right enough," was the reply; "see here, catch hold of this string, undo it, and they come out flat! There you are!"

Peggy gazed at the cap, trying hard to conceal her surprise.

"'Tis like a Jack-in-the-box!" she said to herself; then aloud—

"I'll take one, please, and try how I like it. I'm rather partic'lar as to caps."

The young woman tried to conceal a smile, but she wrapped the purchase up into a small parcel, and Peggy departed in great spirits.

"'Tis the first step to service," she said; "but I don't know where I can try it on. Aunt has the only looking-glass. And I don't like tellin' to Mrs. Creek; she'd think it silly!"

She went home with Arthur, then climbed the steep stairs again. She crammed the cap into the pocket of her dress, then went in and was met with her aunt's usual greeting—

"Wherever have you been, you good-for-nothin' girl? And my parcel ready and waitin' this last hour, and the fire nearly out, and the kettle not near boiling!"

"I've been out with h'Arthur. I'll make up the fire in a second!"

She was not much longer, and then, a few minutes later, sallied out to take her aunt's knitting to one of the City shops. Mrs. Perkins warned her not to be out long, and Peggy sped along the busy streets, racking her brains as to how and where she could try on her untidy little head the stiff snow-white cap that she had bought.

The parcel was delivered, and she received two shillings in payment, which she carefully tied in a corner of a red handkerchief round her throat. Then she retraced her steps homewards.

On the way her eyes lighted on a heavily laden dust-cart in front of her. Something glittered among some rotten cabbages. Peggy's eyes were sharp. She saw that it was a piece of broken looking-glass.

"The very thing for you, Peggy," said she. "Now if you gets that, you'll be in luck indeed!"

She approached the dustman with all the assurance of a London child.

"Hi, mister, jest shy me that piece of glass! I wants it badly."

The man looked at her and it. Then he laughed. "It'll show you no beauty," he said, with a chuckle.

"No," said Peggy seriously, "but it'll keep my hats and bonnets straight on my 'ead."

He came to a standstill. Then with his shovel, he drew out the piece of glass and presented it to her.

Peggy was profuse in her thanks. She hid it under her jacket, and got home in such haste that even her aunt had little fault to find with her.

It was Sunday. She was up early, for she had a lot to do before she was at liberty to go out, and Peggy attended a Sunday School close by, and always went to church on Sunday morning. After that, she stayed in with her aunt for the rest of the day.

Sunday afternoon was the time for Mrs. Perkins' visitors to come and see her. Sometimes it was a neighbour who dropped in for a chat; sometimes a married niece; but there was always a cup of tea going if nothing more, and Peggy waited on everybody and listened to the talk with interest, though she was never supposed to speak.

She went off to Sunday School this morning in a happy frame of mind. Possibilities of a good place always seemed to centre in Miss Gregory, her teacher; and Peggy had made up many wonderful stories about this young lady. How one Sunday morning she would come to school and say,—

"Peggy, I have for a long time thought you would make me a good little servant. Now I am sure of it. I will come round and talk to your aunt, and I will buy you some clothes and next week you shall come to me."

Sometimes Peggy's fancies took a still higher flight. Miss Gregory would say,—

"Peggy, I am buying a house in the country. It is a Rectory, and I have bought the church with it. It has a beautiful garden, and flowers and fruit; you must come with me and be my servant."

I am afraid Peggy's thoughts were often far away from her lessons. She secretly adored her teacher; but if I were to tell the real truth, Miss Gregory looked upon her as a quiet dull little scholar, who was less attentive than many others, and who seemed the most uninterested of them all.

But to-day the lesson attracted Peggy from the very first. It was about the little captive maid who told Naaman's wife of the great prophet who could cure her master. She listened with big eyes and open mouth to the story.

Miss Gregory wound up with—

"And so you see, children, what a lot of good a little servant-maid can do. She had been taken away from her home and friends, and might have been fretful and sulky, and unwilling to help her master. Instead of that, she longed to tell him how he could be cured."

"Should think so," gasped Peggy; "she must have been awful glad to leave 'ome, and go to service!"

There was something in her intense tone that made Miss Gregory look at her. But she felt she needed rebuke.

"No little girl ought to like leaving her parents and going away from them. Good little girls would not like it."

Peggy hung her head abashed. Her next neighbour nudged her sharply with her elbow.

"One for you, Peg!" she whispered.

Peggy gave her a vicious kick, which brought upon her a severer rebuke still from Miss Gregory, and when the class was over and the children dispersing, Peggy was kept behind.

"Don't you ever wish to love Jesus, Peggy, and please Him?" her teacher asked rather sadly.

Peggy looked upon the ground and said nothing.

Miss Gregory went on, "I have often wished you took a greater interest in the Bible, Peggy. You always seem to be thinking of other things. Don't you like hearing Bible stories?"

"About servant-maids I does," said Peggy, looking up with a bright light in her eyes.

"You like that, do you? Why? You are not in service yet, are you?"

"No, teacher. I live with aunt, and does for her."

"Then you ought to be a happy little girl to have a comfortable home, and not have to go out and earn your own living. Maids-of-all work have a miserable time; you need not wish to be one of them."

"But I wants to get into a good place with real nice ladies!" said Peggy earnestly.

Miss Gregory shook her head.

"You would have a lot to learn before you could do that."

"But the girl in the Bible went right into a lovely place. You said her mistress was great and rich. I'd like to wait on a lady like that!"

Miss Gregory smiled, as she noted Peggy's downtrodden aspect.

"Well," she said, "perhaps one day you'll go into service, and if it is a shop, you can serve God as well there as in a palace. Don't wait for great things, but be faithful in small. Now follow the others into church. I am coming."

Peggy's hopes were again dashed to the ground.

"'Tis no good, Peggy," she murmured to herself. "Teacher won't never help yer. She thinks you too bad."

She went to church, and when she bent her head in prayer before the service began, this was her petition—

   "Oh God! You'll understand, if she don't. And please find me a place as good as that there leper capting's, and send me clothes, and let aunt let me go. For Jesus Christ's sake, Amen."

Then she lifted her head with bright hope shining in her eyes.

"God 'll do it better than teacher. He's sure to have heard me to-day, 'cause it's in church."

She went home comforted, and through the whole of that day, her busy brain was thinking over the story of the little captive maid.

"I'd like to do somethin' grand like that. In the first place I gets, I'll try. I'll go to a place where there's a ill gent, and I'll tell him—I'll tell him of them there pills that cured aunt's cousin, and if he'll try 'em and get well, 'twould be grand for me. O' course, 'twouldn't be like tellin' him of a prophet, but teacher says there's no prophets now. But it's easy to do grand things in service. If I never gets a place, it's no good thinkin' of 'em."

And so with alternate hopes and fears, Sunday wore away. Not once did she got chance of looking at her precious cap, but the knowledge of her possession was joy to her.

"IN SERVICE TO MY AUNT"

EARLY the next morning she woke, and hearing by her aunt's heavy breathing that she was sound asleep, she cautiously sat up in her little iron bed.

She would like to have drawn aside the old curtain from the window, but she dared not cross the floor.

Her aunt was a light sleeper, and her only chance of an uninterrupted time was whilst Mrs. Perkins was unconscious of her presence.

So, as quickly as she could, she propped up her bit of glass against the wall, and proceeded to array herself in her cap. It was rather a difficult process. First her hair had to be rolled up in a little knob, and it was too short to be tractable. Ends kept sticking out, and then nothing would induce the cap to keep in its rightful position. She pinned it here, and she pinned it there, and each time got it more crooked. But patience and perseverance at last won the day, and Peggy surveyed herself with rapture.

"Yes," she said aloud, with a pleased nod at her reflection. "You look a first-rate servant, Peg. Quite a proper one, and you could open the door to a dook quite nice. 'Come in, sir, please. Glad to see you, sir. Will tell my missus you're here, sir. Yes.' Oh lor!"

Her head was tossed so high, that off flew her cap, and a querulous voice broke in upon her make-believe.

"Now what on earth are you doin' of, Peg? Are you going crazy? What are you a-dressin up for, at this time o' mornin'?"

Peggy's cheeks turned crimson. She scrambled into bed.

"Are you crazed?" repeated her aunt. "Tell me what you're a-doin' of. Lookin' like a monkey with a white thing on yer 'ead! Speak at once, you good-for-nothin'!"

But Peggy felt overwhelmed with shame and confusion. "I 'spect I was dreamin', Aunt. Leastways you'd think so—I was—I was playin' at bein' a servant."

She made her confession in a contrite tone.

"Little fool!" said her aunt, but she turned over in her bed and went to sleep again, and Peggy did not stir till a clock outside struck seven, and then with a sigh she got out of bed, and carefully secreted her bit of glass and her cap under her mattress. It was her only hiding-place, and had held many a queer assortment of articles from time to time.

When she was dressed, she went out to get a 'ha'poth' of milk for breakfast, and this was the time that she took to pass through a quiet, respectable street, not very far away, where servant-girls were to be seen cleaning the doorsteps. This street—Nelson Street by name—had a fascination for her; she took great note of the different caps and aprons worn, and occasionally was fortunate enough to exchange words with some of these envied young people.

To-day she addressed a new-comer on the doorstep of No. 6. Peggy had seen a good many fresh girls on these particular doorsteps; some of them had stayed a few weeks, others for a few days. She always knew the fresh arrivals by the cleanliness of their gowns and the tidiness of their hair; but this new-comer seemed a shade fresher and cleaner than any she had yet seen. She had red hair and rosy cheeks, and her gown was nearer Mrs. Creek's pattern lilac one than any Peggy had noted.

"You're new," asserted Peggy, as she came to a standstill.

The girl turned and looked at her.

"Who are you?"

She did not say it rudely, but with curiosity. Peggy had had many a snub from those servant-girls; few of them would deign to notice her, so she was quite prepared to be ignored.

"Oh," she said, looking at her questioner going admiringly, "I'm going into a place one day, and I comes and looks along this street, and wonders which house I'd like to be in. Who lives in yours? Any one beside the lady that scolds?"

"That be my missus right enough, for I only come in day 'for yesterday, and never have done nothin' right since. There be two gentlemen lodgers, and one first-floor lady that teaches music."

"Oh," sighed Peggy, depositing her small milk jug on the step, and placing her arms akimbo. "If only I could get into service, I'd be real happy."

"I live down in Kent," explained the red-haired girl. "But the country is too quiet, I want London; and so I've come up to my uncle's step-sister."

"But the best places must be in the country," said Peggy. "I'd a deal rather live out o' London. 'Tis so much cleaner for yer caps and aprons—Mrs. Creak says so."

"You are a queer one," said the red-haired girl, staring at her.

Then a voice from an open window called to her—

"Liza, Liza! Come this minute!"

She darted indoors with pail and broom.

Peggy walked on.

"No," she said; "I won't take Liza's place, not if I know it!"

She went into Mrs. Creak's little shop soon again.

"You see, 'm," she said, "I believe if some one was to come and talk my aunt over, she might let me go. There's a girl on the ground floor who would do for her for sixpence a week. Now, if I was out, wouldn't I be gettin' that?"

"Well, yes, dearie, and a good bit more."

"Then I'd be able to pay the girl, and aunt would be looked after. Oh, please 'm, couldn't yer come round one day and talk to aunt."

Mrs. Creak shook her head doubtfully.

"I couldn't myself, but there's the district lady. I could speak to her."

"She's no good," said Peggy. "Aunt won't let her indoors. She says she talks too much religion. She giv' her a trac' one day called 'The Happy Cripple,' and aunt said she were pokin' fun at her."

"Ah," said Mrs. Creak, with a little sigh, "your aunt ain't found out that happiness is found in the very folk who seem to have the least to make 'em happy. I should say your aunt would be better for more religion, my dear."

Peggy leant forward and spoke under her breath—

"She don't like God, 'm, and that's the real fac'! When her legs were hurt under the waggon, and she never walked agen, she giv' up sayin' prayers."

"Poor thing! I never knowed your aunt, Peggy. She were a cripple when I come here, and a person that kept her door shut to most folks. It's like a person shuttin' out the light o' day, to shut out the Almighty."

Peggy nodded.

"And so I wants to leave her and go to service. Please 'm, did you ever hear in the Bible of a leper capting and a little servant-maid?"

"Why, certain I have. 'Tis Naaman you'll be meaning."

"That be his name. I'm wantin' to get a place like that. I dessay she weren't older than me, and see what a lot o' good she did! I mean do an orful lot o' good when I goes into my place!"

Mrs. Creak gazed at the child's big earnest eyes for a moment without speaking. Then she put down the stocking she was darning, and tapped her thimble on the counter.

"Now listen to me, Peggy Perkins. You're in a place now, and in the place that God Almighty chose for you. You're a little maid to a poor, unhappy cripple, who can't move from her bed. Now what good do you ever try to do to her?"

Peggy looked quite startled.

"Why, 'm, aunt is just aunt; I ain't in service."

"Yes you be, dearie. You be servin' her day in and day out. Do you ever try to make her feel a bit happier? Do you tell her of bits you hear in Sunday School, to make her know that God still loves her?"

Peggy drew a long breath.

"Why, I never says nothin' to her more than I can help."

Customers as usual interrupted the conversation, but Peggy departed from the sweet-shop with new ideas in her head.

"'Tis as teacher said to you, Peggy—you're a lookin' for big things and not mindin' the little. But, oh lor! To think of me bein' in service to my aunt! If she were a missis, I wonder if I'd like her better!"

She pondered slowly as she walked down the street.

"Wonder what that there maidservant in the Bible would have done if she'd been lookin' after aunt! But there's no cure for cripples that I knows of, or I might be able to do her good."

She passed a flower-girl selling violets, then she looked back at her, and a bright idea struck her.

Hastily she felt for one of her precious coppers, and after considerable haggling over the bunches, she selected one, paid her penny, and ran off home as fast as her legs could carry her.

When she came in she found her aunt lying down, her work, untouched, by her side. This was such an unusual sight that Peggy was quite taken aback.

She stepped across the room quietly.

"I've brought you some vi'lets, Aunt, to smell."

Mrs. Perkins turned in her bed. Her face looked white and drawn.

"I've that queer pain in my side agen, Peg," she murmured. "Give me a drop o' gin and hot water."

Peggy put down her violets hastily, and went to the cupboard for the gin bottle, which, for Mrs. Perkins' credit, I must say, was hardly ever used by her.

She soon brought her some hot drink in a tumbler.

Mrs. Perkins seemed better after she had drunk it, and once more sat up in bed.

"It took me all of a sudden," she explained; "and I've a lot of work to be got through. Here, Peggy, give me over that wool. Did you say you 'ad some vi'lets? Where did you get 'em?"

"I bought 'em, Aunt."

"Bought vi'lets!" Mrs. Perkins' tone changed. "Why, you wicked, wasteful girl! And where did you get the money? Me lyin' here and slavin' from morn to night to keep us from starvin', and you out in the streets a-buying flowers like any carriage lady! You ought to be ashamed of yerself, that you did!"

Peggy hung her head.

"I bought 'em for you," she murmured. "I thought as 'ow you'd like to smell 'em!"

Mrs. Perkins gave a scornful smile.

"A very likely story. Don't you tell me no more lies! Bought 'em for me, indeed! When did you ever do such a wonder? The skies might fall before you'd give a thought to your sick aunt! You takes her money and vittles, and the clothes she gives yer, and you grumbles at all you has to do for her. Oh! If ever you loses your legs and lies on a hard bed, may you know what it is to have an ungrateful girl a-waitin' on yer!"

A sullen look crossed Peggy's face. She did not attempt to argue the matter out, or prove herself in the right. But she felt as if she would never try to do a kindness to her aunt again. She began to make preparations for tea, and she pitched the violets down on the floor.

That gave an occasion for another scolding, and Mrs. Perkins finally gave orders that the flowers were to be put in a tumbler of fresh water and placed on the window-ledge.

"I only 'opes as you came by 'em honest; but there's no sayin'. I may as well 'ave the good of 'em now they're here."

Peggy was wakened out of her sleep that night by a call from her aunt.

"That old pain agen! It must be those shrimps I took. Oh dear! Oh dear! I feel as if I can't bear it!"

"Shall I rub you?" asked Peggy.

When her aunt seemed weak and helpless, she felt pity for her at once.

Mrs. Perkins let her try to rub her. Some more gin and water was administered, and then she seemed easier. Peggy sat at the bottom of the bed and watched her.

"Ah!" Mrs. Perkins said, with a groan. "I dessay my days are numbered. These pains are cruel; they must mean somethin'. But if I die, there 'll be no one to miss me."

"I shall, Aunt," said Peggy honestly. "I've been thinkin' I'll be a better girl to you. And I'll tell you what I hears in Sunday School, and anythin' to make you a bit happier!"

Mrs. Perkins groaned, and shook her head.

"There's nothin' will make me happy," she said; "but there be plenty of room for improvement in you, Peg."

"Yea," said Peggy, humbly and determinedly. "I've made my mind up to do yer good, same as the servant-maid did to the leper capting. An' I'll tell yer all I hears, and you can pick out the bits that soot yer, and ease your mind like."

"I don't want ter hear religion," said Mrs. Perkins, with an indignant sniff. "If there be a God, He have treated me shameful! I won't have nothin' to do with Him!"

"God loves yer, Mrs. Creak says," said Peggy undaunted. She was still sitting at the bottom of the bed, staring at her aunt; and now her eyes took a dreamy turn. "Anyways, you ain't been mocked and whipped and crucified, same as Jesus Christ, and God loved Him ever so, teacher said so. I s'pose as how God loved us ever so, and let us come first, when the Crucifixion come along!"

"Get into bed with yer, and don't talk my 'ead off!" was the irritable comment of Mrs. Perkins.

Peggy promptly obeyed.

When she woke the next morning, her aunt was much as usual. The midnight talk seemed a dream; neither of them alluded to it, and life went on as before till the following Sunday.

Peggy went to school that morning with a fixed resolve in her busy brain.

She lingered behind the other children when school was over.

"Please, teacher, I wants to arsk you somethink."

"Then you shall walk to church with me, Peggy. We are quite early, so sit down again. What is it?"

"Please, teacher, is there no ways of gettin' a cripple cured now, same as the leper capting in the Bible?"

"You mean Naaman? Well, no, Peggy. God does not work miracles now, nor let His servants do it; there is no need."

Peggy's face fell.

"Then poor cripples can't be done good to by no one?"

"Oh yes, indeed," and Miss Gregory's face brightened. "Their hearts may be made well and sound and happy, Peggy; and after all, that is the best part of us, isn't it? We think a lot of our body, with its aches and pains, but it is only a cage. I passed down a narrow dark street yesterday, and outside a window there was a thrush, singing as sweetly as if he were perched on a tree with a beautiful green world all around him. Do you know where thrushes generally live, Peggy? In the sweet country, with flowers and dew-laden grass, and the free, clear air to fly in, with nothing above them but the infinite blue, and other birds to live and play with all day long. That is the world to sing in, and this little fellow was in a smoke-grimed cage about a foot square; he could only see soot and dust and fog, and screaming, quarrelsome men and women, and children who sometimes tried to hit him with stones. Yet he sang his song as merrily and sweetly as any free, country bird. He had a happy heart. And if we have a crippled body, we can have a singing heart."

"How?" said Peggy, with big eyes and still bigger thoughts.

"By asking Jesus to come into our hearts and make them sing. Have you ever asked Jesus to come into yours, Peggy?"

"I prays to Him," said Peggy reflectively; "but I don't expec' He'd care to live in my heart. It ain't fit for Him. Aunt says I be a wicked girl."

"However wicked your heart is, it can be washed whiter than snow, Peggy. Jesus will do that if you give your heart to Him. He will make your heart fit to receive Him, and if He 'abides in us,' we are told we shall bring forth much fruit; you will be helped to be good and guarded from evil if Jesus is taking charge of you."

"I'd like Him to," said Peggy, with a determined little nod.

"Then shall we kneel down here together and ask Him? You speak to Him, Peggy, and remember that He is waiting to hear and answer you."

So Peggy bent her head and shut her eyes.

"I arsk you, Lord Jesus, to take hold of my heart and wash it, and make it proper; and please come into it and give me a singin' heart, and I gives it up to you like teacher says I ought. And please help me to be good, for I'm awful wicked."

There was a little silence in the empty schoolroom. Then Miss Gregory prayed aloud for her little scholar, that she might be kept a true and faithful little follower of her Saviour. And when they rose from their feet, Peggy's face was very sweet and serious.

"I'm never goin' to be wicked no more," she asserted.

Miss Gregory smiled, then told her to follow her to church; and on the way talked very earnestly to her, trying to make her realise how weak she was in herself, and how strong her Saviour.

When Peggy reached home, and sat down to the luxury of a mutton chop with her aunt, she began to think how she could pass on what she had heard. It was very difficult. Mrs. Perkins was more discontented on Sunday than any other day in the week. She had time for airing her grievances, and her tongue certainly never had a Sabbath's rest, if her hands had.

"Aunt," said Peggy at length, bringing out her words with a jerk, "do you ever feel like singing?"

"Are you givin' me some of yer imperence?" was the angry retort.

"Oh no, I ain't a-goin' to sauce yer! Teacher, was a-tellin' me of a sick body havin' a singin' heart."

"I dessay," Mrs. Perkins said scornfully. "Let yer teacher wait till she has a sick body, and then let her sing!"

"I 'spect she would," said Peggy thoughtfully. "She says how you does it is to ask Jesus to come into your heart, and He'll make it sing."

Mrs. Perkins gave a contemptuous snort.

Peggy gained courage, and proceeded—

"I was arskin' her if sick folk that couldn't be cured by doctors could be done any good to, and she says, 'Yes, their hearts could be made well and sound and 'appy. It sounds cheerful like, don't it? I thought as 'ow you'd like to hear it."

"Much obliged," said Mrs. Perkins sarcastically.

There was silence. The meal was finished. Peggy washed up and tidied the room. Her aunt lay back in her bed, and appeared to be studying a Sunday paper. But suddenly Peggy heard her give a little cry.

"That there pain agen! Oh for! Whatever shall I do? 'Tis a-takin' hold o' my inside, like a lobster's claws!"

"I'll get the gin," said Peggy.

But her aunt would have none of it. She moaned and cried, and then began to talk incoherently.

"'Tis nay 'eart, I know 'tis, and I shall be dead before long. A 'appy heart! Ay, 'tis fine talkin'! Singin'! I mind in Sunday School I could sing the 'eartiest o' them. How does it go?

"'Oh for a 'eart to praise my God,
    A 'eart from sin set free.
  A 'eart that's sprinkled with the blood
    So freely shed for me.'

"What do you say, Peg, about the love o' God? Oh lor! Oh, fetch the doctor, quick, quick!"

A spasm of agony seemed to pass over her.

Peggy rushed from the room.

"Mrs. Jones!" she shouted at that good woman's door. "Go to aunt. She be mortal bad! I'm off for the doctor."

It was not long before she was back again with the young practitioner who lived not far away. But Mrs. Perkins was already beyond all human aid, and Peggy for the first time in her life realised what an awfully sudden and unexpected messenger Death may sometimes be.

"I'M READY FOR MY PLACE"

THE next few days were dark and bewildering ones to Peggy. Mrs. Jones proved a friend in need. She took her to her room at once and mothered her as she had never been mothered before. Peggy was grateful, but she was not comforted till she paid a visit to Mrs. Creak.

"'Tis so awful me havin' wished 'er dead many a time, Mrs. Creak! I thinks of it at nights. And I was so cross and sulky and imperent, and now she be gone. And oh! Mrs. Creak, where is she?"

Mrs. Creak was silent. Then she said softly—

"You gave her a message, dearie. Her last thoughts were about God and His love. She may have put up a prayer for mercy. She were very near it from the hymn you tells me she quoted—

"'Oh for . . . a heart that's sprinkled with the blood
    So freely shed for me.'

"It may have set her thinkin' and then prayin', dearie. 'Tis very remarkable she should have minded it just then. But oh! Peggy, my girl, never you leave it to make your peace with God till He calls you! He do call so terrible sudden sometimes."

Peggy nodded soberly.

"I ain't goin' to say another cross word to no one all the days o' my life 'm, for fear they should die sudden 'fore I could make it up with 'em."

"That's a very grand resolve," said Mrs. Creak, "but it's too big a one to keep, Peggy, if ye don't ask the Lord's help."

"The Lord helpin' me—Amen," finished Peggy fervently. Then, after a big sigh or two, she came to business.

"Please 'm, Mrs. Jones wants me to stay and mind h'Arthur, and she'll give me my vittles and clothes, but I wants to go to service."

"I know you do, dearie, but 'tis difficult for you at present."

"Oh, please 'm, do you think God is answerin' my prayer? I've been arskin' Him fearful hard to let me go to service, but I do hope I haven't been and made aunt die."

She stopped, aghast at the thought. But good little Mrs. Creak reassured her.

"God has our lives in His hand, and no others have, Peggy. He took your aunt away, but I doubt if it will be easy even now for you to get into real good service."

"Why?"

"There be your clothes, child. You have none fit to wear, and it takes a good sum to get things together. And then you have no trainin' at all. If you could go to a trainin' 'ome now."

"That I never will!" said Peggy stoutly. "I won't go to the 'Ouse or any such institootion. I'll manage 'm. I know a good many girls in places, an' they 'll 'elp me."

Peggy did not let the grass grow under her feet. She followed her aunt's funeral in company with three other women who took pity on her. And then, when she had come back and packed up her belongings, she gave the key of her room to the landlord and went to live with Mrs. Jones.

The very next day she was haunting Nelson Street, and eagerly talking to the red-haired girl at No. 6.

"I'm a-goin' into a place as soon as I can find one," she assured her importantly; "but I don't want to live in this street."

"That's a pity," said the red-haired girl good-naturedly, "for No. 14 is a-goin' to be married, and she's leavin', and you might a-tried there."

Peggy's face lit up with a splendid inspiration.

"Is that No. 14 a-cleanin' her doorstep?" she asked breathlessly.

She was assured it was. Off she marched, and opened fire at once.

"I say, I hear tell you be leavin'. How soon?"

The servant-girl looked round. She had a pretty little face, but her dress, cap, and apron were in a pitiably dirty condition.

"Yes, I'm leavin', thank goodness!" she ejaculated. "What business be it of yourn?"

Peggy's eyes were not on her face, but on her dress. She was taking stock mentally, and murmured to herself—

"Be careful, Peg! Two darns in the back, a slit in the elbow, and a washed-out blue!"

Then she spoke.

"How much for your cotton dresses? Will ye sell?"

"Sell 'em!" exclaimed the girl. "Be you clean demented?"

"But you won't be wearin' cotton when you're married," urged Peggy; "and I'm certain sure your gowns would fit me. I'll give yer two bob for this one, and that's a very good offer."

The girl looked at Peggy with some amusement.

"I don't care if I do sell you this one. I'm a-leavin' to-morrow."

"But it must be washed," said Peggy firmly.

"Oh, I ain't a-goin' to have it washed. You'll take it as it is."

"Then sixpence off!" said Peggy.

The bargain was struck. Late the next evening, Peggy arrived at the sweet-shop in an eager, excited state.

"Here I am, please 'm, and two print gowns for three-and-sixpence; one dirty and one clean. And the hems will turn up, and they only want a bit o' mendin'. You see 'm, there's ten shillings of poor aunt's that come to me, besides the five that Mrs. Jones got my best black with, and she giv' me a black hat; so now I've got six shillings and sixpence for boots, and a jacket, and aprons, and another cap; and please 'm, do you think I shall do then?"

Mrs. Creak looked at the enterprising Peggy with amusement and a little respect.

"I see you be quite determined to go to service, Peggy, so I'll do what I can to help you. Give me the dresses, and I'll see to 'em. If you gets clothes, you won't be long in finding a place."

A fortnight later, Peggy had the joy and satisfaction of seeing a very modest outfitin her one wooden box. Mrs. Jones had been good to her, and given her several cast-off garments of her own, which clever old Mrs. Creak had cut up and altered and turned out in quite good style.

"'Tis not only the outside of your back wants covering, my girl; and remember that good stout petticoats and well-mended stockings will keep you warm and well in the coldest weather."

"Yes 'm," said Peggy meekly.

And then she added anxiously, "And, please 'm, I'm tryin' hard to fasten my hair up. I've a-been lookin' at the girls in Nelson Street. They mostly has a curled fringe, but I can't make mine curl nohow. I've tried curl-papers, but I don't seem to manage 'em right, and them curlin'-tongs cost money."

"Now, Peggy, you take my word, and brush your hair smooth. Ladies will like it much better. Plait it neatly behind; them fringes be traps for dirt and dust, and take a lot o' time fussin' over."

"But," said Peggy, "I want to look proper 'm; I don't want to look like a Noah's Ark servant. Mrs. Jones says girls must make the most o' theirselves. And a fringe makes a cap look first class!"

"You try my way first. I know good service, and 'tis the best servant-maids wear the plainest heads."

So reluctantly Peggy gave up all idea of a fringe. She appeared in Nelson Street one morning and spoke to her red-haired friend.

"I'm ready for my place," she said, with much pride.

"No. 9 is wantin' a general," said Eliza.

"Who lives there?"

"A widder and six children."

"Oh my! I couldn't do for 'em. What does a general do, Liza?"

"Most everythink—washin' and cleanin', and cookin', and twenty other things besides."

Peggy gave a little shake of her head.

"I don't think I'll go to No. 9. I should like to live in a bigger street than this. I'm on the look-out for a house with a garding!"

"Why don't yer go to a Registry?" suggested Eliza. "That's where I should go, only uncle were so wild for me to come 'ere."

"What's a Registry?" asked Peggy. "'Tis where they marries folks, ain't it?"

"No, silly! Yer puts your name down, and what yer can do, and then when a lady comes along, they giv' yer name to her, and she sees yer, and if she likes yer she takes yer."

Peggy's eyes shone.

"That's first-rate. I'll go this afternoon, and I'll put on my best black. Where is there one?"

"The girl at No. 14 who's just come, tells me there's one in Friars Street, No. 54."

Peggy repeated this to herself, and walked home radiant. She did not tell Mrs. Croak of her intention, for she had a fear that she might stop her. In this conjecture she was right. Mrs. Creak was old-fashioned, and did not think much of Registries. She had told Peggy she had mentioned her to the Bible-woman and to the district visitor, and they had both promised to look-out for a place for her. But Peggy found waiting was a trial, and so she took her future into her own hands, and when she was arrayed in her black frock and hat, she informed Mrs. Jones that she was going out to look for a place.

"Good luck go with you!" said that good-natured woman. "And mind you say you can mind babies well, Peg. I'll speak for you there, for you've minded h'Arthur h'off and h'on since he cut his first tooth!"

Peggy marched away. She looked at her reflected figure in the shop windows with great satisfaction.

"You look grand, Peggy!" she ejaculated. "Fit to be in a real good place, and you see you get it, that's all!"

She found the Registry. It was a Berlin Wool shop, and a large card printed in the window stated that it was a "Servants' Registry."

She went boldly in, and addressed a stern looking-woman behind the counter.

"Please 'm, I've come to look for a place."

"What kind of place?" demanded the woman. "Have you ever been out before?"

"No," said Peggy importantly. "This is my first place, so I'm very partic'lar about it."

"And what can you do?"

Not a glimmer of a smile crossed the questioner's face.

Peggy drew a long breath. She had rehearsed it too often to be at a loss.

"Please 'm, I can scrub floors, and clean grates, and make beds, and clean winders, and sweep and dust, and mind babies, and cook 'taties and tripe, and mutton chops, and steak, and red herrings, and make tea and gruel, and hot drinks of gin and water, and nurse cripples, and run messages, and wash clothes, and—"

"That will do. Your name?"

"Margaret Perkins, please 'm."

"Your age?"

"Thirteen 'm."

Another grave-faced woman came forward.

"There's a lady waiting for a girl," she said, in a murmur. "She doesn't mind training them, she says. Shall I let her see her?"

Peggy's checks got crimson with excitement. When she was ushered into a little back room, and was confronted by a tall melancholy woman in black, she felt that this was a crisis in her life.

"Is this a respectable girl, Miss Shipley?"

Peggy did not give Miss Shipley time to speak.

"I'm quite respectable," she said. "I'm goin' to service because my aunt has died. Lots o' people know me."

The lady looked at her gloomily.

"You look very small," she said. "Are you strong?"

"I'm quite strong, please 'm, and, please 'm, have you an ill 'usband? That's the place I'm lookin' for. To wait on a lady with an ill 'usband. But I can mind your babies for yer. I'm first-rate with babies, so long as there's only one in arms."

Miss Shipley turned sharply away. The lady frowned ferociously upon Peggy.

"I am a single lady," she said, "and want a clean honest respectable girl, who does her work, and keeps a quiet tongue in her head."

Peggy was not a whit abashed.

"I don't talk if I'm not wanted to," she said; "only, please 'm, what kind of 'ouse do yer live in? Has it a garding? And is there carpets on the front stairs? I'm lookin' for a real nice place."

"Miss Shipley!" called the lady sharply. "This girl will be no use to me; she is either most impertinent or half-witted."

Peggy was bustled out, wholly unconscious that she was in fault. Miss Shipley enlightened her.

"If you wish to get a place," she said, "you must be quiet and respectful in your manners. If you sit down a bit, we may have other ladies in."

Peggy took a seat in silence. She saw a good deal of coming and going, was interviewed herself by a publican's wife, a grocer's, and a young bride just married to a plumber and gasfitter, but she calmly declined each of these situations, asserting gravely—

"I means to live in a proper house, in a real good place."

Then the Miss Shipleys lost patience with her.

"You tell us you have had no experience, and have never been out before. You ought to be thankful to any one for being willing to take you and train you. You bring us no references, and yet expect to get a first class place. It is quite ridiculous. You are really too small and young to be in service at all."

Peggy felt dismay for the first time, but she sat still in her corner. Other servants came and went, but she did indeed seem to be the smallest of them all. Presently, with a sigh, she got up.

"P'raps I'll call again to-morrow," she said. "There must be some nice places goin', and I means to get into one of 'em!"

She made her exit very quietly. The Miss Shipleys seemed rather relieved to get rid of her.

Once outside, big tears came to her eyes.

"Peggy, you ought to be 'shamed of yourself, great cry-baby! You've got your clothes, and of course you'll get a place."

She rubbed her eyes vigorously, and was startled when she heard a lady's voice close to her.

"What is the matter, little girl? Can't you get a place?"

Peggy looked up astonished, not knowing that her words were overheard.

A lady dressed in mourning was addressing her, and Peggy thought she had one of the sweetest faces that she had ever seen.

"Oh, please 'm," she cried, "do you want a servant? I'd like ever so to come and live with you."

The lady smiled. "I am just going in to the Registry for a girl, but I think you are too small."

"That's what they say," said Peggy, with a little gulp in her throat. "And if they only knew what I can do! I can scrub floors, and clean grates, and make beds, and clean winders—"

She rattled off the list of her accomplishments with hope once more shining in her eyes, as she saw the lady's interest in her.

"And, please 'm," she hurried to say, "I don't mind if you don't have a garding; but I'd do for you faithful wherever you be."

"We can't well talk in the street," said the lady. "Come inside. I will ask Miss Shipley about you."

Peggy followed her in with bright eyes and red cheeks.

"We don't know anything about her, Miss Churchhill," said Miss Shipley when questioned. "She appeared about an hour ago. We wonder if she is quite—well, quite bright!"

The lady looked down at Peggy's eager face.

"Not much the matter there," she said, with a smile.

"The fact is, Miss Shipley, we are giving up our town house, and my sister and I have taken a small cottage in the country. We thought of taking some respectable girl down with us."

"Oh, please 'm," broke in the irrepressible Peggy, "'tis the very place for me. Mrs. Creak says the country is so clean, and I'll have to be awful careful with my caps and aprons. Oh, please try me, and see if I don't soot you."

Miss Churchhill smiled again, and then questioned her closely as to references. The interview ended in Peggy leading the lady straight to Mrs. Creak's sweet-shop.

"Mrs. Creak will tell you all about me 'm. And she knows what good service is, for she lived in a Rectory. I s'pose 'm, you haven't a Rectory and a church belongin' to you!"

Miss Churchhill's eyes grow moist.

"I have known what it is to have a church belonging to me," she said gently. "My father was in charge of one in the East End, and died from overwork only a month ago."

Peggy nodded sympathetically.

"I've had a death belongin' to me, too," she said. "'Tis awful! 'Twas my aunt, and now I've no one left."

When they entered the shop, Miss Churchhill asked Peggy to wait outside.

"I want to have a private talk with Mrs. Creak," she said.

Peggy trod the pavement outside with firm steps.

"You've done it, Peg! You've found yerself a place with a real lady, and it has been as straight and easy as anythink!"

Some acquaintances accosted her.

"'Ulloo, Peggy, goin' to church on a weekday?"

"'Ave you bin to a treat?"

"I'm a-goin' into service," said Peggy, with uplifted head.

"Oh, you por critter!"

Then they danced round her singing—

"Worked in the army, worked in the navy,
 But most worked o' all is the poor little slavey;
 Cookin' and scrubbin', dustin' and runnin',
 Missis is allays a-beatin' and scoldin'!"

Peggy turned upon them furiously.

"You keep your tongues quiet. I'm a-goin' to the country, I am! When you gets taken for a day's 'curshion, you think o' me! Not pickin' flowers and eatin' apples and blackberries one day in the year, but all the year round, all day long, I'll be doin' it! I shall live in a hop-garding orchard, and never want no dinner off sassages or herrins, for I shall eat strawberries and plums and grapes till I got quite a tired o' their taste!"

"Go it, Peg!" cried out a small boy. "And where be yer goin' to live? In a carawan?"

"In a white house," went on Peggy waxing warm in her enthusiasm, "with walls covered with roses, and a green door; and vi'lets, and lilies and chrysanthys all over the garding, and a pond with swans, and a fountain—"

"Garn wi' yer!"

A piece of mud was flung at her. Peggy beat a hasty retreat, and tumbled into the arms of Miss Churchhill.

"If you please 'm, may I come?"

"I am going to see your Sunday school teacher. I know her slightly. Mrs. Creak gives a good account of you, Peggy, but you see Mrs. Creak is quite a stranger to me."

"She's real good 'm, Mrs. Creak is."

"I have no doubt of it. I will write to you after I have seen Miss Gregory. Good afternoon, Peggy."

Miss Churchhill walked away, and Peggy darted into the sweet-shop, where she stayed for half an hour talking over the wonderful fortune that might be coming to her.

COUNTRY MUD

IT was a mild afternoon towards the end of February. Sundale Station looked deserted when the London train dashed into it. Only a porter stood on the platform to welcome any arrivals, and when the one passenger proved to be our Peggy, hugging her small box, he looked at her with grim humour.

"I'm paid by the Company to wait on you, Miss, so hand over. Where are you going? Not from this part, are you?"

"I'm going to my place."

Peggy was in nowise daunted.

The journey had been a delightful one. Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Creak had both stolen a short respite from their busy life to come to the station and see her off. She had received a parting present from both of them. Mrs. Jones had presented her with a fancy workbox, gay with painted flowers, and Mrs. Creak a stout serviceable umbrella.

Peggy thought there never was such a happy girl as herself; not a shadow dimmed the future. And she looked up into the porter's face now with such a beaming smile, that an answering one appeared on his.

"Well, where's that?"

"Ivy Cottage—Miss Churchhill's."

"Oh, those be the two fresh ladies come down last Monday. You wait a bit, and I'll get my barrow and go with you. 'Tis only half a mile—a little more."

So a quarter of an hour later Peggy stood before her new home. Perhaps it did not quite come up to what her fancy depicted. It was a small red-brick house standing back from the road, with a front garden edged with trees and shrubs. Straw and newspaper littered the front path, the windows were curtainless and blindless, and the front door stood open, showing furniture blocking the way.

Peggy walked up the path with smiling assurance; then she paused, for down on the floor, at the foot of a flight of steep narrow stairs, sat Miss Churchhill, with dishevelled hair, and a handkerchief up to her face.

When she saw Peggy she sprang to her feet.

"Why, Peggy, we have completely forgotten you! Come in. Is this your box? How much is it? Sixpence. Thank you, porter; put it down here. We are all in confusion. Good afternoon. Now, Peggy, you must help us, for we hardly know what to do first, and I am in the agonies of toothache."

She tried to speak brightly, but Peggy's quick eyes rested on her face.

"Please 'm, you've bin cryin'. I'm wery sorry for yer; but, please 'm, have you tried brown paper and vinegar with a little pepper? Aunt used to find it eased her faceache wonderful, and Mrs. Jones, please 'm, used to soak her brown paper in gin. She said it was first-rate."

Miss Churchhill began to laugh; Peggy's interest and earnestness when she had hardly set foot inside the house comforted and cheered her.

"Joyce!" she cried. "Our little maid has come."

Downstairs came a bright-faced dark-haired girl. She had an apron over her black dress, and her skirt was pinned up. She smiled at Peggy.

"There's a lot to be done, so you must help us as quickly as you can. The woman who has been cleaning for us had to leave early to-day. We have got your room ready. Can we get your box up? It is quite a small one; you take one handle, and I will take the other."

The little room was soon reached. Peggy gazed at it with admiration, but her eyes remained longest on her dressing-table and looking-glass.

"I was a-wonderin' whether I'd have a glass," she said confidentially to the youngest Miss Churchhill. "You see 'm, it's rather partic'lar to me, 'cause of my caps!"

"Oh, of course," Joyce replied, hastily beating a retreat; "now take your things off, and come downstairs as quick as possible. It is tea-time."

"My dear Helen," she said, when she joined her sister, "what an extraordinary specimen you have got hold of."

"She is an original, but I'm hoping she may be a treasure. Don't laugh at her, Joyce; she takes life in real earnest. She has done me good already. I was feeling so miserable when she arrived."

"Poor old thing! You're worn out. Shut the front door, and come and sit down. We shall all feel better after a cup of tea. Do you hear the kitchen fire crackling? Doesn't that cheer you up?"

"We shall never get our furniture into the rooms," sighed Helen. "We ought to have sold more, and brought much less."

"I shan't speak to you till we've had tea!"

Joyce went off to the kitchen, singing; then a few minutes after came back to her sister.

"We haven't a drop of milk in the house. I've forgotten all about it."

"The farm is close; send Peggy."

"So I will."

Joyce ran upstairs. She found Peggy holding out one of her print dresses, and gazing at it with loving admiration.

"I'm just a-goin' to get into it, please 'm."

"Oh, you needn't do that to-night. Slip on an apron. But I want you first of all to run up to the farm for some milk. I will show you where it is. Put on your hat again, and make haste."

Peggy breathlessly obeyed.

Joyce took her outside the gate, and pointed to another large gate on the opposite side of the road.

"Go through that, and keep to the footpath across the field; then go through another gate, and you'll reach the farmyard. Get a pint of milk from Mrs. Green, the farmer's wife, and tell her who sent you. She'll know then; and it will be all right. Do you quite understand?"

"Yes 'm."

Peggy departed with pleased importance.

She was a long time gone, but at last she reappeared with a very sober face.

"Come along; where's the milk?" asked Joyce, meeting her at the front door.

"Please 'm, I haven't got it!"

"Why? Have you spilt it? What is the matter?"

For answer Peggy slowly pulled up her skirt, and displayed one boot, which she raised in the air for inspection. It was certainly very muddy.

"I had to turn back 'm. It was awful! I never see'd such mud—never! It ain't like the mud I've bin accustomed to; it sticks! And it got worse, and a cab-horse wouldn't a-walked through it!"

Joyce stared at her, then lost her patience.

"You stupid girl! It's no good to be afraid of mud in the country. Here are we waiting for our tea! How do you expect us to get our milk? If you don't do it, I must."

Tears that had been very near the surface now ran over.

"Please 'm, it's my best boots, and they cost four shillings and sixpence; but I'll try again 'm."

Peggy choked down a sob, and departed.

Joyce went back to her sister half-amused, half-vexed.

"She thinks no end of her clothes," she said. "If she could only see what a little guy she looks!"

"Oh, hush, Joyce! I don't think she is half bad-looking. She is very thin, and has that stunted, wizened appearance that most London children have, but she has a dear little face. It will be getting dark if she does not make haste. I never should have thought that mud would have turned her back."

Poor Peggy was going through worse horrors than mud, and when she finally arrived with the milk, her hat was awry, her black dress was covered with dirt, and her eyes nearly starting out of her head with terror.

Joyce snatched the jug out of her hand, and marched off to the kitchen without a word; but Helen took pity on her.

"What is the matter, Peggy? You look frightened."

"Oh, please 'm, I've never bin to a farm, and I did go through the mud, though it was almost a-drownin' of me, and then I come to a gate, and when I got through, please 'm, it was a wild beast show, only worse, for they weren't shut up in cages! There was great brown bulls with 'orns 'm, a-tryin' to run at me, and there was pigs as big as sheep, and great white geese, and a dog barkin' like mad and tryin' to break his chain to get at me, and awful-lookin' turkeys which I've never seen alive 'm before, only hung up in shops at Christmas-time, but I knewed 'em by their red beards, but the scandalous noise 'm they made at me, would frighten the king hisself!

"They all made for me 'm, they did indeed, and there was ducks and fowls by the hundreds all runnin' under everybody's feet. Please 'm, I knewed I were in dreadful danger, but I did my dooty faithful, and thought of your milk. Only what with the sticky mud, and the cocks and hens, and tryin' to dodge the bulls, and turkeys, and all the rest o' the wild animals, I fell slap down 'm, and then I give myself up for lost. I 'ollered, and 'ollered, and then a man run out, and he took the jug, and was so kind as to tell me I might wait outside the gate, and he fetched the milk to me hisself.

"And, please 'm, is there no p'lice in the country, for they wouldn't allow no such goin's-on in London; they be all on the loose and no one to keep 'em from attacking yer! And, please, 'm, must I go every day to fetch the milk?"

Peggy's breath gave out. She truly had been nearly frightened out of her wits.

Helen concealed her amusement, and spoke very kindly.

"We forgot you were a little town girl, Peggy. We will not send you till you are accustomed to country ways. I don't think the animals would have hurt you, but I'm sure it must have been very alarming. Now go upstairs and change your boots, and brush your dress, and then come down to tea."

Poor Peggy went upstairs a sadder and a wiser girl. She shook her head at herself in the glass.

"Yer clothes will be ruined, Peg, and you've no more money to buy new ones. I almost thinks I shan't like the country."

But a minute after, the glory of perching her cap on the top of her head, and feeling that it had a right to remain there, overcame all her woes.

She went downstairs with a smiling face, and when she found herself in a cheerful kitchen, which, though small, was tidy, she again congratulated herself on her good fortune.

Joyce found her really helpful in getting things to rights, and when she laid her head on her pillow that night, Peggy added the following to her evening prayer:

   "And, please God, I thank you for bringin me 'ere, and making me into a proper servant. And I'll try to do my dooty to you and my missuses. And please help me to do it, for Jesus' sake. Amen."

Perhaps the supreme moment to Peggy was that in which she stood arrayed the next morning in her clean print gown. What did it matter if it was faded and old? It was starched, and crackled when she moved.

"Sounds like silk almost," she said to herself; and she certainly swept downstairs as if she were a princess robed in satin.

Poor little Peggy had never before possessed a dress that had to be washed. When water was scarce, and soap and soda had to be considered, it was natural that she could not afford the luxury of a dress that soiled so easily. A girl going to her first ball could not have taken more care not to spoil the dainty freshness of her gown, than Peggy did of her second-hand print dress that morning.

Joyce, coming down to help with the breakfast, returned to her sister upstairs exploding with laughter.

"Helen, your little maid will be the death of me!"

"What has she done now?"

"She has pinned newspapers all over herself to preserve her gown and apron. She looks like a walking edition of the 'Times!' And when I remonstrated, she said the coals and kitchen grate would soil her clothes. Can't you hear her crackling as she moves about?"

Helen laughed heartily.

"Don't hurt her feelings. I don't think she has ever possessed a cotton frock before. She will soon get accustomed to it, and, after all, such extreme cleanliness ought to be encouraged."

In a few days Ivy Cottage presented a tidy aspect. Helen and Joyce felt that their rooms, if tiny, were cosy and even pretty. And Peggy's gratification was great when the stairs were carpeted. She took a keen interest in her new surroundings and learnt to use the possessive case pretty freely.

It was "my kitchen," "my kettle," "I'm sweepin' my draw'n' room," or "dustin' my dinin' room bookcase." Everything—upstairs and down—belonged to her, and "my house, my garding, and my missuses" formed the chief topic of conversation with any passing villager. She found she had a great deal to learn, but she was so willing and anxious to please, that Joyce, who took her in hand, forgave her ignorance and awkwardness, and prophesied to her sister that though at present a rough diamond, she might prove worth her weight in gold.

Mrs. Creak meanwhile looked out anxiously for Peggy's first letter.

The Board School had certainly taught her to read and write, and though the letter arrived with many an ink-smudge and blot, it was quite decipherable.

   "MY DEAR MRS. CREAK,—I'm going to write to you for this is Sunday and I've been to church, and I let you no that the cuntry aint clean at all, but downrite filthy, for I never seed mud like it in London. There is no lamps or shops when tis dark so you falls down anyweres in a ditch or pond and no pleece picks you up for there is none of them.

   "Old men wears their shirts over their coats to come to church. Farms has hunderds of feerce animals kep roun them which you has to walk thro, and they all tries to kep you away from the door, and cows and bulls walks along the road all day. There is no shops noweres.

   "My place is fine and I has butter to eat evry day. I has many hunderds of things to take care of. I treds on carpets evry day. I spilt tea over my apron I trys to be clean. There is more to dirt me than our room in London. My missuses are nice ladys. I am quite well as I hopes it leaves you at present.

"Your friend,

"MARGARET PERKINS.

   "P. S.—Nex Sunday I goes to Sunday School. Please give my love to Missus Jones."

"Well," said Mrs. Creak, folding up the letter and taking off her spectacles, "girls is different to when I was young! The country too dirty for her! What next! Nought about the sweet, pure air and blue sky and singing birds, and green grass and trees and hedgerows. Her eyes never gets higher than the mud! I'm ashamed on her, that I be!"

"TOO FAITHFUL"

"PEGGY, Miss Joyce and I have to go away for a night. We are wondering about you, but Mrs. Timson, our next neighbour up the road, has kindly said she will let you sleep at her cottage. In fact, I think we had better lock up the house, and you go to her altogether."

But this did not suit Peggy at all. Here was an occasion to prove her trustworthiness!

"Oh, please 'm, I've a lot o' cleanin' to do. I would be ever so careful. Miss Joyce has showed me how to clean my brass fireirons, in my drawin' room, and I wants to scrub out my cupboards, and I has two aprons to wash, and, please 'm, there ought to be some one to take care of the 'ouse, 'cause of burglars!"

"We are not afraid of burglars down here," said Helen, with a smile. "And there is 'Albert Edward'; he can be tied up to guard the place."

"Albert Edward," was a new importation. He was a rough-haired terrier that had been presented by the vicar, and he was a formidable watch-dog. Peggy and he were great friends, and they had many mutual likes and dislikes.

"Yes 'm, Albert Edward and me will take care of everything beautiful."

In the end a compromise was made. Peggy was allowed to stay in the house till four o'clock in the afternoon, then she was to go to Mrs. Timson.

She stood at the gate a proud and happy girl when her mistresses departed the next morning. She watched them out of sight, then stayed a minute in the front garden, gazing at a clump of snowdrops, the only flowers then in bloom.

Mrs. Creak was wrong when she lamented Peggy's non-appreciation of the beauties of nature.

Her little soul was drinking it in very slowly, but very surely.

As she looked out of her small bedroom window every morning, she would say to herself—

"Oh, Peggy, what is it makes you feel so happy? 'Tis the wonderful lot of room you sees, and all the empty earth and sky, why all London couldn't crowd out this place, 'tis so big!"

Now as she looked at the snowdrops, she addressed herself again.

"They does keep theirselves clean, Peggy. 'Tis a pity you can't be more like 'em, they be just like white chiny. I'm glad I don't have to dust 'em ev'ry mornin'. I should be certain sure to snap their stalks off! I wish Mrs. Creak could see what flowers I have 'ere, and nothink whatsoever to pay."

Then she betook herself indoors.

The garden was pleasant, but she could not scrub or dust it, and those two arts were at present her chief joy.

The day passed too quickly for all she had to do, and at four o'clock she locked up the front door, leaving Albert Edward in the back kitchen with a plate of scraps by his side.

When she arrived at Mrs. Timson's she found that worthy woman sitting down with her husband at his tea. John Timson was the carrier to the nearest market town, six miles away. He was a meek little man with a great faculty for receiving all local gossip and quietly passing it on.

His wife overpowered him when present. She was a head taller than he, and a great talker, but not a cheerful one. They had no children, and Mrs. Timson was very glad to help out their small income by going out cleaning or washing. She washed for the Miss Churchhills, and Peggy's much-prized cotton gowns passed through her hands.

"Come ye in and sit down, me dear," she said to Peggy. "I've been expectin' ye this long while. How's the world treatin' ye? Better 'n it do me, I reckon! For 'tis work, work, work, when me bones is full of aches and pains. And if I had laws to make, I'd make 'em so as to make the sufferin' ones sit still, and the hearty ones to work."

Her husband gave a quiet wink to Peggy.

"Meanin' me, in course, wife; but I do be at it all day long."

"You? You sit in your cart like a dook, and gossip wi' folks till one don't know fac' from fiction. 'Tis me that be at it all day long."

"I like workin'," said Peggy simply. "But then I be stronger than you, missus."

"That you be. I mind when I were a girl how I worked. But there! Things is different nowadays, and I'm gradorly droppin' down towards me tomb."

"I've locked up," said Peggy inconsequently. "Do you think it will be all safe?"

"Safe as my watch in my pocket," said the carrier.

His wife shook her head at him.

"Do ee remember that terrible murder away at Ball Farm two years gone? 'Twas a farm servant left in charge, and 'twas gipsies that did it. Two men got inside, dressed like women, and they were purtending to tell fortunes, and the poor little maid screamed for help, and they killed her."

Peggy's eyes grew round. She was accustomed to London horrors, but she thought the country was free of them.

"I ain't afraid of no one with Albert Edward," she said sturdily. "I'd like to have slep' by myself over at my 'ouse to-night. Albert Edward would kill any burglar if he could get at him, I know he would."

Once embarked on a gruesome subject, Mrs. Timson flowed on, bringing out of her past reminiscences so many ghastly stories of murder and thieving and such-like, that at last her more cheerful husband interfered.

"Come, missus, stop it! This young lady won't sleep to-night. She be drinkin' it all in like water!"

"Oh! I ain't afraid," Peggy again repeated. "I arsks God to keep me safe, and I knows He will."

Her sleep was sound and sweet in spite of Mrs. Timson's stories, and she would hardly wait for her breakfast, so impatient was she to get back to Ivy Cottage.

"My missuses will be back at three o'clock, and I has my rooms to sweep and dust, and Albert Edward will be expectin' of me."

She ran back with a light heart, found the postman had left two letters, but no one else had disturbed the premises. She worked away with a light heart, but at twelve o'clock heard at sharp ring at the bell, and when she went to the door was confronted by a tall commanding-looking lady, who asked gruffly if the Miss Churchhills were at home.

Now the last words of Miss Churchhill to Peggy had been these—

"You are to let nobody into the house, Peggy. You cannot be too careful. If any one calls, say we are away from home."

So, with a suspicious glance at the visitor, Peggy replied importantly—

"My missuses be away till this arternoon."

"How vexing, to be sure! But they must have had my letter. I will come in and wait. My bag is at the station, and will follow me."

Peggy's head was so full of the stories that she had heard, that she murmured to herself—

"Tis a burglar, Peggy, a-dressed up and tryin' to get in. Now be brave, and do your dooty."

She slowly began to shut the door.

"No 'm, I ain't goin' to let you in; and if you don't get off with yer pretty sharp, I'll call Albert Edward!"

"You impertinent girl! Do you know who I am?—Miss Alicia Allandale. How dare you try to shut the door in my face! A nice reception when I come to see my nieces! Let me in this minute!"

Miss Allandale had a stronger arm than Peggy. As she found she could not close the door, she called loudly to Albert Edward. Alas! He was already barking frantically in the back kitchen, with two closed doors between him and the intruder.

"You go out this minit!" Peggy shouted valiantly. "I see yer tricks. You ain't a-comin' I tell yer, so there. Not if I dies for it!"

The lady made no reply, but she thrust Peggy aside as if she were a fly on the wall, and walked straight into the little drawing room. Then Peggy flew to the kitchen, got hold of Albert Edward, and brought him snarling and growling with rage to the door. She was about to let him in upon the uninvited guest when a second thought struck her. The key was outside the drawing room door. She locked the lady in, and then drew a long breath.

"Now I'll go and fetch a pleece, if I can find one; only, Peggy, you stoopid, he may get through the window and take all the chiny and books with 'im! Here, Albert Edward, come here! You watch outside the window, and if he or she—I dunno which it is—shows their 'eel's outside the window, you go for them, my boy!"

Albert Edward was only too delighted to oblige. He took up his position outside the window, and with low continuous growls, and much display of teeth, proved his ability to guard his mistress's domain.

Peggy flew along the road, first to Mrs. Timson's, but that good woman was out; then, as she was nearing the village, she met the blacksmith.

"Oh! Please, sir," she gasped, "could you catch 'old of a burglar? I don't know where to find the pleece, and you look fairish strong. I've been and locked 'im up; he's dressed like a woman. Oh! Come on quick, please sir! He may be smashin' the china when he finds he can't get out!"

The blacksmith looked puzzled, but obligingly accompanied Peggy.

"You be a smart little maid to have tackled a thief," he said. "Tell us how it was."

Peggy began her story, but as she neared Ivy Cottage her heart misgave her when she saw Albert Edward in the road, worrying at some object which he held between his teeth.

"He's got away!" she exclaimed. "We be too late!"

But when she bent over Albert Edward and found he held a lady's shoe in his mouth, she looked up at the blacksmith with a doubtful face.

"You don't think, sir, that he 've a-killed and eaten 'er?"

They found the drawing room empty, but the window open.

The blacksmith made light of it. "Your visitor found his welcome too hot for my girl. Look about and see if there be anything missing. It don't look as if he have taken anything."

Peggy made a minute inspection of the room.

"No, everythink be right. You don't think really that Albert Edward—"

The blacksmith lifted up his head, and gave a hearty laugh.

"I don't think he swallowed 'im, my girl; no, I don't indeed. Keep the shoo, and we'll put the pleece on his track. Are you 'feared of bein' left?"

"Not a bit!" said sturdy Peggy. "'E won't show his nose agen with me and Albert Edward here."

By the time the Miss Churchhills arrived, Peggy had come to the conclusion that she had been at last what she had long wished to be—a real heroine.

"And, Peggy, if you'd only kep' 'im and given 'im up to the pleece proper, I 'spect your name would have come out in the newspapers; and then what would you have felt like!"

She poured forth her story rather incoherently, but with great pride. To her consternation, Helen turned upon her.

"What name did you say, Peggy? Why it was our Aunt Alicia. Did a letter come? Oh what have you done?"

Joyce began to laugh, and Peggy to cry.

"Please 'm, she looked too tall; and her voice was so gruff."

"Of course it was," said Joyce. "She's an eccentric old lady, Peggy, who is fond of taking us by surprise. Well, what does she say, Helen? Don't look so grave."

Helen held out the letter, which was as follows:—

   "DEAR NIECES,—As I find myself within thirty miles of your new abode, I shall give myself the pleasure of coming to stop a night with you. I haven't given you a present for some time, but will wait till I see what you need most in your cottage. Expect me by the 11.30 train.

"Your affectionate aunt,

"ALICIA ALLANDALE."

Joyce read this aloud.

Peggy's face was a study as she listened, and as she understood the enormity of her offence. Holding out a stout but much-bitten black shoe in her hand, she said tragically—

"And, please 'm, this is all that is left of 'er!"

Helen, as well as Joyce, saw the humour of the situation, and laughed aloud.

But they were seriously annoyed; and poor Peggy, dashed from her pedestal as heroine to a very stupid and ignorant little servant-maid, spent the rest of the day in tearful lamentation.

The next morning Helen received the following letter:

   "DEAR NIECE,—I was subjected to such insolence and humiliation from your ignorant servant yesterday, who absolutely refused me entrance, and refused to listen to my explanation, that I have resolved never to place myself in a like position again. I don't know where you got her, or what training you are giving her. I conclude she is the lowest type of humanity, and the nearest proximity to a savage that I have ever come in contact with. She not only locked me in a room, but fetched a low, vicious mongrel, and deliberately set him at me. My dress is in rags, and ankles severely bitten. I am in the doctor's hands. It will be long before I propose myself as your visitor again.

"Your affectionate aunt,

"ALICIA ALLANDALE."

"Peggy is too faithful," murmured Helen.

"She has more heart than head," said Joyce. "Well, cheer up, Helen. We have lost a substantial cheque, which we can ill afford at present. You must write and explain; but she will never forgive or forget it."

And Miss Alicia never did.

As for Peggy, her spirits fell considerably. She was learning life's lessons, and discovered that her sense and judgment were not always to be relied on.

"You've had a fall, Peggy," she said to herself, "and you won't get up so high nex' time. Oh my! I only hope a real burglar won't come along. For I'm certain sure that I'll ask him in so porlite, and be so kind to 'im that he'll clear the whole 'ouse as easy as can be!"

A HEATHEN STOCKING

PEGGY had been to a missionary meeting in the village schoolroom. It had been held there expressly for children, and a missionary from India had spoken very earnestly to them.

"Do you all know about Jesus?" he had asked.

Then reading assent in their faces, he went on, "Happy children, to know you have a Saviour and Friend with you every day! There are hundreds of thousands living and dying without this knowledge. Would you not like to help to tell them about it? There are none too small to be missionaries, and I hope some of you are missionaries at home.

"Remember the little captive maid who told her master of the One who could cure him. There are many at home who want to be cured by the Great Physician. Tell others about Jesus. If you don't begin doing this at home in England, you will never be able to do it abroad amongst the heathen. We want you to tell about Jesus; we want you to pray to Him for the poor heathen, and we want you to give of your money to help to send missionaries out to teach them. Prayers, purses, and preaching bring heathen to Jesus. Do not forget these three P's."

Peggy walked home full of thought.

When Helen asked her if she had enjoyed it she said "Yes 'm." Then, after a pause, she said irrelevantly, "I suppose 'm you'll never have a ill gentleman to live with you?"

"Why, no, Peggy."

"I did used to think I wouldn't get a place without a ill gentleman, but I couldn't find one, and then you come along, and so I came."

Helen looked puzzled.

"Why did you want a place with an invalid gentleman?"

"So as to be like the little servant in the Bible," was Peggy's prompt reply. "I somehow thinks I could 'elp him like the other girl did."

"But, Peggy, you need not wait for that opportunity," said Helen gently. "There are always people to be helped, even in our village—people who want to be told that Jesus will cure their souls if not their bodies."

"Do people have sick souls?" asked Peggy earnestly.

"Yes, indeed they do. The soul that hasn't Jesus living in it is always sick—sick unto death."

Peggy pondered over this.

"I'm a-goin' to think over those there three P's," she said presently. "And, please 'm, I've done one already."

"Which is that, Peggy?"

"Prayers 'm."

"I'm glad to hear you have prayed about it. You mustn't forget to pray every day, Peggy."

"But, please 'm, the gentleman told us of them idols that the heathen made. He said them were deaf, but God weren't."

"Yes?"

"So, please 'm, I ain't goin' to arsk God more 'n once. I kneeled down when I comed 'ome, and I arsked Him to save the heathen, every one. And He ain't deaf, so I ain't goin' to arsk Him again."

Helen looked at Peggy, but said nothing. And Joyce at this moment coming into the room, prevented further conversation.

Two days after this, an old pedlar came to the door. Peggy went to interview him.

"We don't want nothink, thank yer," she said, eyeing his wares with some curiosity.

"Now don't 'ee say so, my dear, with your pretty young face a-longin' for a bright bow of ribbon in your cap. Look at this piece o' blue, three yards for sevenpence. Why, 'tis givin' it away. Ah, I see you're a sensible girl; you don't care for finery. Now I dessay I have a book or two that may take your fancy; or a pictur' now. Look at this one. A religious one this is, very sootable for a bedroom."

"'Tis Christ knockin' at the door," said Peggy, with a pleased nod.

"'Well, I s'pose it is; only one shillin' and sixpence. Why, He be worth more nor that, hain't He?"

Peggy frowned at his chuckle that followed.

"'Tis Jesus Christ you be speakin' of. And that's our soul He's a-knockin' at."

"'Tisn't mine," said the old man; "I don't deal in such harticles. I hain't got no soul—don't believe in 'em."

Peggy stood gazing at him with horror.

"You was born with one," she said; "what have you been and done with it?"

He rubbed his head and looked at her with a curious sort of smile.

"What have you done wi' yours?" he demanded.

Peggy's voice hushed.

"I giv' it to the Lord Jesus. Teacher taught me how at Sunday School."

There was a little silence, then Peggy saw her opportunity and seized it.

"My missus told me there were some souls 'sick unto death.' Maybe yours is—nearly dead, but not quite."

"Wery likely," was the amused retort.

"Wouldn't you like it made alive agen?"

Such a flash of light lit up Peggy's plain little face as she asked this question that an answering gleam played across the old pedlar's.

"How's it to be done?" he asked.

Peggy pointed to the picture.

"Ask Him to come into it. If He lives in it, He'll make it alive agen; missus said so."

"Oh, ay," said the old man; but a long-drawn sigh escaped him. "Well, good-day, missy, as ye won't buy nothin'."

But Peggy seized hold of him by the lappet of his coat and detained him.

"But look 'ere, you just do it! I'm a-tellin' you of a cure for your soul. Don't you go away without a-listenin'. I'm a-tryin' to be a missionary at 'ome, I am, and you've a splendid one to talk to, almost as good as a 'eathen. You listen! I ain't goin' to let yer go. Do you mind the girl in the Bible who sent her master, the leper capting, to be cured? I'm a-goin' to send you, and you'll 'ave to go. 'Course you will. Who'd stay with a sick, dead soul, if they could get it made alive agen? You go, do yer hear me?"

"Oh ay, bless the girl, what a tongue she has! Make a fine preacher one o' those days."

A bell rang, and Peggy know she must answer it.

"Goodbye," she said, with disappointment in her tone. "But I say, mister, if you go and get your soul cured, you come back and tell me."

"Ay, that I will."

The pedlar departed shaking his head; and so ended Peggy's first sermon. She was very silent all that day thinking about it.

Shortly after this she was called into the little dining room by Helen, to receive her first wages. It was an eventful day in her life. She looked at the money as it was placed in her hand. It was half a sovereign. Never had she handled a gold coin before. Her aunt's money had been left to her in silver.

"I am very pleased with you, Peggy," said Helen to her, "but of course you have still a great deal to learn. You are too noisy, too fond of talking, and break too many things. All this you must try to get the better of. I know you try to do your duty faithfully and well; ask God to help you to cure these faults."

"Yes 'm," said Peggy, who was certainly learning humility. Then, with a little burst of enthusiasm, she added, "Please 'm, I've never had so much money of my own afore. May spend it just as I have a mind?"

"I think you had better lay half by, for you will be wanting some new boots soon. You will have to be careful over it."

A shade of disappointment came over Peggy's face. She took her treasured coin upstairs.

"Now, Peg, don't you be a silly," was her advice to herself. "You does as your missus tells you. 'Tis the country that wears the boots so."

She turned the half-sovereign over in her hand.

"Five shillin's for boots, and five to make the other P. I'll ask missus to give it to me in silver to-morrow. But, oh my! How grand I am to be havin' gold of my own!"

The next day she got her coin changed, but a pang went through her as she did so. It seemed as if she had only received it, to lose it at once. However, when she found an old stocking, and put five shillings carefully into it, her happy smile shone out again. Laboriously she wrote out on a piece of paper which she dropped inside with the money, "Margaret Perkins—Her heathen stocking." And then tying the stocking into a tight knot, she deposited it at the bottom of her box under her bed.

"There, Peggy," she said, with a long-drawn sigh of relief, "now you've made a beginnin', mind you keep right on, and keep it secret from everybody. And then one day you'll walk up to the clergyman and you'll roll a stockin' of gold out at his foot for them there savage heathens. Oh my! 'Twill be grand!"

One afternoon Joyce came into the kitchen where Peggy was cleaning her hearth.

"Peggy, we want you to take a message for us. A walk will do you good. It is a lovely day. It is to Mallow Farm; you have to go through fields the whole way, but you can't make a mistake, as there is a beaten footpath. Take your time about it, and give this note to Mrs. Webster there. Bring us back an answer. We want her husband to supply us with some wood for our fires."

Peggy departed with alacrity; Albert Edward accompanied her as a matter of course. She was directed where to go, and lifted up her little heart in gladness when she got out into the sweet spring air and sunshine.

"Oh!" she said, sniffing vigorously, "I feel as if I could h'eat the air to-day. I'm quite hungry for it!"

The first field was crossed in peace. The second was full of young bullocks. Peggy's heart came up in her mouth. She had not yet conquered her fear of all cattle. She peeped cautiously over the stile, and waited till some of the nearest ones moved away. Then, gathering courage, she addressed Albert Edward.

"Look here, you've got to keep quiet. If you go barkin', they'll run at us, I knows they will. You foller me."

Albert Edward wagged his tail in response, but instantly obeyed, only out of the corner of his eyes he watched the cattle. Presently two of them turned and steadfastly gazed at Peggy.

"Oh my! They're a-comin'! I'm a-goin to scream!"

She took to her heels, and Albert Edward, considering he was released from his bond, dashed with a vigorous bark at the nearest bullock.

In a minute they were all in a commotion, and how Peggy ever got across that field without being tossed or trampled upon, she never knew.

But she stood with beating heart when she had got through the gate, and looked up into the sky.

"Oh God, I arsk you to take care of me. I'm dreadful frightened of these here bulls. For Christ's sake. Amen."

Then she looked around her. What dangers awaited her in this field, she wondered!

A light came into her eyes as she looked, and then wonder and admiration hold her spellbound.

The field was full of sheep and tiny lambs. Peggy had never seen lambs at play before. She stood and gazed in delight, and Albert Edward looked alternately at the lambs and her with wistful eyes. If only he could be allowed to chase them! But his conscience told him he could not.

"I never, never see'd such darlin's! Oh, Peggy, you've come to a place at last that is worth gettin' through those bulls to see! Oh, the pretty little dears! Why, 'tis like bein' in a picture-book to be with 'em!"

A lark rose up singing before her. There seemed no end to the joys of this afternoon. Long she lingered in that sunny meadow; but the next field held a new joy, and only one or two horses at the farther end were the disturbing elements. In a sunny hedge were clusters of primroses. With a shriek of delight Peggy made a rush at them, and when she gathered the first handful and inhaled their sweet scent, she hugged and kissed them in ecstasy.

"I've never see'd 'em a-growin' wild. Oh! If only Mrs. Creak and Mrs. Jones and h'Arthur were here! Now this is somethin' like bein' in the country!"

She picked a large bunch, then renewed her way. Albert Edward had turned up his nose at the primroses, but he was delighted to poke it into the hedge, where he sniffed for rabbits, if not for the flowers that grew there.

Peggy came to one more halt before she reached Mallow Farm, and this was at a tiny cottage at the corner of a field. As she was passing by, she heard some one calling. Curiosity made her put her head inside the door, and there sat an old man cowering over a few lighted logs on a wide open hearth.

"Do you want anybody, mister?"

The old man turned and looked at her.

"'Tis Bill I wants," he said peevishly. "Bill who works to the farm. He said he'd be here to cook my taties, and 'tis gone four. I didn't have none for dinner and wants some wi' my tea, and I've a-been and upset the pot a-tryin' to put him on the fire, and the taties are burnt up. Oh, dearie me! I'm a poor lone man who can't do nothink for himself!"

Peggy's quick eyes saw the overturned pot. She went forward and picked it up.

"I'll peel a few taties in a minute and pop 'em on for you," she said cheerfully. "You sit still, mister. I see the taties. They're on the dresser there. Oh my! What a muck your things are in! Who cleans your room for you?"

The old man began to cry.

"'Twas my poor Janie did it last. She only died six months ago. And no neighbours be near—only the farm. Bill—he does what he can, but he be a bit clumsy with his fingers; and I be terrible crippled with rheumaticks. Thank 'ee kindly, my dear. You be new to these parts, I reckon."

"I live with my missuses at Ivy Cottage," said Peggy, as she deftly peeled the potatoes and dropped them in the pot. "I comes from London, I does; but, oh my! What a sight the country be this arternoon!"

"What be the matter with it?"

"The matter! Why, the sun be shinin' and lambs be playin' and primroses a-growin'. Look at my bunch! Did you ever see sich flowers? They hangs 'em round a black figure in London—on his birthday, I believe. That's how I knows 'em. Beckyfield his name be. Funny his name bein' a kind o' field; I never thought on that afore. Must have somethin' to do with the primroses.

"Oh my! You oughter walk out, mister; 'twould cheer you up. There's a kind of happy, wake-up feel outdoors to-day. And the birds are a-singin' and a-flyin' up miles above yer head. There now, mister; tell me where to get a drop o' water and I'll put the pot on for yer."

"'Tis to the pump outside."

Peggy found the pump and placed the pot on the fire.

"I'll ask my missus to let me come and see you one day," she said, with a confidential little nod. "There's a good bit o' news and talk I could give you about London."

"Ah, do 'ee come in agen, me dear. I be a poor lone old man, and no one comes nigh me."

"All right, I'll turn up. Good arternoon!" She turned to the door and almost ran into the arms of a tall young man.

Shyness was not one of Peggy's characteristics.

"I s'pose as how you're Bill," she said, with a queer look up at him. "I've bin doin' what you oughter! Yer poor old father wants some one to look arter him. Why don't yer keep the place clean? 'Tis as bad as London for dirt and mess. You jest giv' it a good lick up afore I comes this way agen!"

She marched off, Albert Edward at her heels, and Bill Somers stared after her in stupid amazement.

A FELLOW-GIRL

MALLOW FARM was reached at length, and Peggy's delight was great when she found a gate that did not lead into the farmyard. The door was opened by a bright, rosy-cheeked girl about Peggy's age, who said that everybody had gone to market and she was alone in charge.

Peggy looked dismayed.

"Who are you?" she asked bluntly.

"I'm the servant."

"Reely? Well, I'd best leave the letter for your missus, and she'll send an answer. Is this your first place?"

"Yes. Be you in a place?"

"My place is with the Miss Churchhills. They lives at Ivy Cottage. Real ladies born they are. I comes from London."

"You don't say so!"

The girl stared at her as if she were some foreign product.

"Yes," Peggy went on, tilting her chin in the air, "I've seen a deal o' London, too much by a long way, so I set my mind to get a place in the country, and here I am. Don't you wear no caps?"

"No," said the girl, "us don't do with them in the farms. I've a sister in proper service, and she do."

"Ah, well," said Peggy grandly, "they take a lot o' care and keepin'. My name be Margaret Perkins. What be yours?"

"Ellen Tate. My home is in the village. I only come here four months gone."

"Don't you like it?"

"No, I wants to go to a town. Tell about London. There are miles o' shops, ain't there?"

"Miles and miles; but the country is a deal nicer."

"I'm sure it ain't."

"You has to pay for everything in London," Peggy said, slowly thinking it out, "and the country gives it to you free. I picks up sticks for the fires, and in London you'd pay a mint o' money for 'em. Look at my primroses! I didn't pay nothin' for 'em. In London they'd cost a shilling quite, and Miss Joyce brought some watercreases in the t'other day from the stream. She got 'em free. In London you pays."

"Yes," assented Ellen; "you wants money if you goes to Lunnon. I knows that."

"Have you got many friends?" demanded Peggy, looking at her with great interest.

"Why, I haven't one."

"Would you like me as a friend? I think I'd like you. You see we be both in service, and pretty near of an age. I'd like a friend in these parts, and I believe we'd get on fine."

Ellen looked delighted.

"I'd like you first-rate, 'cause you'd tell about Lunnon. But what day do you get out? I'd meet you on a Wednesday."

"Oh, I'll ask my missus, and let you know. I must be off now, for I have my tea a-comin' on."

Peggy returned home safely, and in very good spirits.

"Please 'm," she said to Helen, as soon as she could get a chance, "I've made two acquaintances this arternoon—an old man and a fellow-girl, who is a servant. And, please 'm, I should like to see 'em both agen, and my fellow-girl and myself intends to be friends. I h'aint got a friend here, for no one keeps servants in the village, 'cept the Rectory, and they do seem so grand up there. I hope you don't h'object and I thought I'd ask you if I could have Ellen to tea once in my kitching. I wouldn't ask you 'm to give her tea, but I'll manage and half mine with her. I'll eat extry at dinner to make up, and she won't take no notice if I don't seem to have the appetite for my food!"

Peggy paused for breath.

"I shall be glad for you to have a friend," Helen replied, "if she is a good, steady girl, but I should like to know about her first. She is Mrs. Webster's servant, I suppose?"

"Yes 'm. She seems a very nice girl 'm; o' course I dessay I could learn her a few things. She don't wear no caps, but then she ain't with real ladies. But if she ain't what I like 'm, when I gets to know her, I'll learn her to be different, and if she won't be, well, I'll give her up!"

Helen smiled, as she generally did when Peggy held forth.

But the friendship was formed, and Peggy and Ellen exchanged visits, and walked out occasionally together.

"I would give a good deal to hear their conversation," said Joyce one afternoon to her sister when Ellen had come to tea in the kitchen. "Peggy's tongue never ceases; what does she find to talk about?"

If she could have heard them, this was what Peggy was saying—

"So you see, Ellen, I made up my mind then and there when the gentleman spoke that I would be a missionary when I was growed-up."

"But," said Ellen, with round eyes, "you want to be eddicated, don't yer? And how are you to get over the seas? And what will yer do when yer gets there?"

"Oh, that 'll all come very easy," said Peggy loftily. "You has to make up yer mind that you is goin', first thing; same as I did about goin' into service. Then yer has to set to work to get yer clo's, same's I did too. But my Miss Helen told me, 'tis very hot where the heathen live, and they don't wear much clo's, not to speak of. So I dessay I shall do fine. P'raps three cotton dresses, and a hat would last quite a long time—and no jacket, you see—that 'ud save wonderful."

"But what would you do when you got there?" persisted Ellen.

"I'd have my Bible under my arm," said Peggy solemnly, "and I'd tell 'em all to come round me, very quiet like. I wouldn't have no pushin' or fightin'. And then I'd read 'em about Jesus."

"And nothin' else?"

"Well," said Peggy, considering, "I think I'd tell 'em very distinckly that Jesus died to let 'em go to heaven. I'd tell 'em He loved 'em, and they must be good, and He'd help 'em if they arsked Him, same as He does me."

"And then what?"

"Oh," said Peggy, still thoughtfully, "I s'pose they'd ask a few questions, and then p'raps we'd 'ave a hymn, same as the street preachers do in London, and then I'd have done till the next day. I don't expec' it would be very differcult, Ellen—not if you set yer mind to it."

"But I heard tell," said Ellen, "that people over the sea don't speak English like us do, and can't understand it. Like a Frenchman who came to our village inn once."

Peggy's face fell.

"I never heard that the heathen talked French. I hopes as how they don't. I don't think they could be clever enough, Ellen. They be poor ignorant critters, that be what they be, and wouldn't never have the sense to speak in foreign langwidges—it be only eddicated ladies and gents that do that."

With this reasoning she recovered her cheerfulness, until she remembered sundry beggars she had seen in London who were not at all educated, but talked in strange tongues.

"Anyhow," she said, after a pause, "if they does speak French, I'll have to learn to speak it too. 'Tis wonderful what you does when you grows up, Ellen. Most things come easy then. And I'll ask God to help me, like He mostly does."

Ellen shook her little rough head doubtfully. "It don't sound as if you'll do it, Peggy. It don't sound real. I h'ain't heard much of heathen, but they live with lions and tigers, don't they? And I have 'eard tell that they eat one another up alive."

"I h'ain't heard that," said Peggy firmly, refusing to be deterred from her purpose. "I believe that's a make-believe in story-books. The gentleman the other evening called 'em 'poor critters sitting in darkness, callin' out for light.' And he said we must take it to them."

"Then when you be growed-up, you won't be a servant any more?"

"I don't know quite, Ellen. You see, I ain't quite sure about missionaries. Some on 'em p'raps goes to the heathen for a bit, and then comes 'ome agen. And if my missuses ain't dead, I don't know as how ever I shall leave 'em. But it isn't till I be quite growed-up, you see, Ellen, and my missuses will be very old then—and p'raps they will die—though I don't like to think of it."

Ellen subsided.

"You be a wonderful girl," she said. "I never have see'd any 'un quite so queer as you be!"

One day Ellen was able to give Peggy a piece of news.

"My missus is goin' to have a lodger—a lady what's ill. She be comin' to live with us for a month, and I'll have to wait on her!"

"Oh," said Peggy, with a long-drawn breath. "What a pity 'tis she's not a sick capting!"

"Why?" asked Ellen.

"Is she comin' by herself? She ain't got no sick husban'?"

"No, that she ain't. I shouldn't like to wait on two sick folks—one be bad enough. And how I be goin' to get through my work is the wonder!"

"Oh, but," said Peggy reprovingly, "this sick lady is who you must do good to. Why, Ellen, 'tis splendid! You can be like the little Bible maid—she had to wait on a lady, and she got her master healed, and 'twas talked of everywhere. You can guess how much her was thought of to be put in the Bible! I wish I was you! Just for a bit, you know, to see what I could do."

"I never does understand what you be at!" said Ellen. "What can I do for a lady, 'cept to do what her wants?"

"You wait and see."

Peggy nodded her head mysteriously. She went on: "My Miss Helen told me, there was people with sick souls as well as sick bodies, and my teacher in London says to me just the same, only she was talkin' of hearts instead. But I believe it means all the same. And you see, Ellen, we've got to tell people who can cure 'em and then they goes. That's all the Bible maid did, and that's all we've got to do. You find out what your sick lady be like, and you tell me. I'll show you what ter say to 'er!"

Ellen shook her head.

"I shan't do nothin' but wait on her," she said stubbornly.

They did not meet again till a fortnight elapsed, then Ellen was full of information.

"She be a widder lady in black; and be very white in the face; and has the headache, and lies on the sofy. And she has a stern face, and don't smile much, but she talks to missus. She never says nothin' to me, and I don't say nothin' to her."

"That do seem a pity," said Peggy slowly. "Can't you ask 'er if you can't do nothink for her 'eadaches. Do ask her, Ellen!"

"She be a great reader," Ellen continued; "for she have books and books, so her knows much more 'n I do about 'eadaches and everythin'!"

"You jest arsk her," urged Peggy.

Ellen would not promise, but one afternoon Peggy was sent to the farm on an errand. And to her great delight she found the invalid lodger sitting out in the garden. She had to pass her on the way to the house, so Peggy at once seized her opportunity.

"Good arternoon 'm."

The lady glanced up. She had a book in her lap and another lay at her feet. She seemed tired and unhappy. She looked at Peggy without speaking, and, of course, Peggy hastened to introduce herself.

"If you please 'm, I'm Margaret Perkins—I'm Ellen's friend. P'raps you've heerd her remark on me. I lives with my missuses at Ivy Cottage. And, please 'm, have you the 'eadache to-day? And have you heard 'm that puttin' yer hankychief in boilin' hot water and soppin' yer 'ead with it is first-rate for the 'eadache? My aunt used for to do it, when her were took bad with them. It's a thing I ain't troubled with myself is the 'eadache, but 'tis very tryin' to bear' m, and I be mortal sorry for yer!"

It was impossible to be angry with Peggy, as she stood there wagging her head to and fro with great solemnity.

Mrs. Dale found herself smiling at the odd little figure before her, and wondering at her eager interest in her welfare.

"I did not know myself and my headaches were topics of conversation with any one," she said. "But I am much obliged to you for your recommendation. I have tried hot water in times past. I do not always suffer from headache. If that were all the matter with me I should be a happy woman."

She murmured these last few words, but Peggy's quick ears caught them.

"Please 'm, I'm sorry. I be very happy myself, and would do anythink I could for yer."

Again the lady looked at her with a sad smile.

"As you go through life, little girl, you will find there are many things worse than a headache. May you never have the heartache that often causes them."

She took up her book again, and there was something in her manner that even awed Peggy.

She walked on to the farm door and delivered her message to Ellen.

"And, Ellen," she said, in an excited whisper, "I've see'd 'er, and a-spoken to 'er, and 'tis what I thought. 'Tis a sick heart she has, and you and me will see she gets it cured whiles she's here."

There was no opportunity for more conversation, for Mrs. Webster appeared. She was a smiling, good-natured woman, and had a great liking for Peggy.

"Miss Churchhill do be a kind lady," she said. "She have sent me this recipe of her grandmother's for curin' spasms, which take me on and off. Will you please take her back my respec' and thanks for it. 'Tisn't every lady will give a thought to other folks' aches and pains and try to cure 'em!"

Peggy returned home full of thought. Later that day, just before her bedtime, when she had washed up all her dishes and tidied up the kitchen, Joyce came in and found her engrossed in a cookery-book; her pen and ink, a sheet of paper, and her Bible also lay before her.

"What are you doing, Peggy?"

Peggy looked up with her usual pleased smile. "Please 'm, I'm tryin' to write a recipe for the sick lady at Mallow Farm. I want to do it proper like. 'Twas missus a-sendin' Mrs. Webster a recipe made me think on it. Ellen seems as if she can't say nothin'! I do believe 'tis 'cause she never were born nor brought up in London!"

"And what is this wonderful recipe, Peggy? How did this lady come to ask you for one? Did you see her this afternoon?"

"Yes 'm. She were sittin' in the garding, and me and her had a few words of talk together. I thought 'twas the 'eadache was makin' her ill, but she told me 'twasn't, and when she told me, I was tooken aback like, and didn't think of the right words, and so 'm I be sendin it to her by Ellen."

"Sending her what?"

"The cure for a sick heart 'm. The cookery-book and the Bible is helpin' me to do it."

Joyce retreated.

"Helen," she said, coming into the little drawing room where her sister was seated working, "I think you had better look after Peggy. I don't pretend to understand her theology, but she is going to treat Mrs. Webster's lodger to some of it, and it is being done up in a very unorthodox way!"

Helen looked up.

"You are always laughing at my little Peggy, Joyce, but I tell you she sometimes shames me with her earnestness."

"Well, go and see what she's doing, for her originality may do mischief sometimes."

Helen went off to the kitchen. She came back some minutes after, with a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

"I don't like to be always prying into her concerns," she said. "It is no business of ours, and really I don't think her purposes are ever harmful ones. So I did not ask her any questions, but she showed me this, and asked me if it was spelt right, and I told her it was very nice and came away. This is the rough copy."

Joyce bent over it and read—

   "An excellent recipe for a sick heart to be made well.

"INGREDIENTS.

   "You keeps quiet, and you puts your mind to it. First you kneels down and arsks Jesus Christ to cure it, and make it well. Then you gives it to Him to keep, for the Bible says, 'My Son give Me thine heart.' Then He washes it 'whiter than snow,' same as Psalm says, and then when He has cleaned it proper He comes and lives in it, same as He says, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man open unto Me, I will come in.' Then the sick heart begins to sing, because it's happy.

   "This recipe has never been known to fail.

   "Time in making: about half an hour."

Joyce looked at her sister, and Helen looked back at her in silence.

"I call it irreverent."

"She does not mean it to be so. She has been pondering every sentence. She asked me about the time with the greatest solemnity. I could not speak."

"It is almost clever," said Joyce. "What will she develop into, Helen?"

Helen shook her head.

"She is one of Christ's 'little ones,' Joyce—of that I am sure."

"If she sends it, make her strike out the time," said Joyce; "it seems almost blasphemous. I will tell her so myself."

She went into the kitchen. Peggy was just going to bed.

"Peggy, you mustn't play at such a solemn thing as a heart being changed by our Lord Himself."

Peggy's horror-stricken face was raised at once.

"Please 'm I never did!"

"But you've written that it can be done in half an hour. Do you know some people spend a lifetime in seeking peace for their souls. It is a tremendous transaction."

Peggy was silent for a minute; then tears began to gather slowly in her big blue eyes. "Please 'm I thought Jesus Christ was ready always. Teacher told me he wouldn't keep us waitin'. And, please 'm, I thought p'raps she might think she'd be too busy to see to it. I didn't go for to mean to play at it, please 'm, I really didn't!"

"You can't tie those kind of things down to time. It is irreverent," persisted Joyce, ignoring the tears.

"I warn't more nor harf an hour with teacher," sobbed Peggy. "She kep' me back one Sunday 'cause I spoke to her. But I won't say nothin' about time, please 'm. Only mayn't I put 'It won't take long if you put your mind to it?'"

"You're a very little girl to be sending these messages to grown-up people," said Joyce, eyeing her gravely.

But Peggy in an instant smiled so radiantly that Joyce felt quite nonplussed.

"Yes 'm, like the little maid in the Bible sent the leper capting to be cured. That's why, please 'm!"

Joyce left her.

"Peggy," she informed her sister, "is above and beyond me altogether!"

"A REAL LITTLE HOME MISSIONARY"

MRS. DALE was rather astonished one morning when, coming into her sitting room to breakfast, she saw a rather crumpled note lying on her plate, directed in an uneducated hand:—

             "To Mrs. Webster's lady.

 "From Ellen's friend what spoke to you last
Tuesday. With her respects and best wishes."

She was still more astonished when she opened and read Peggy's recipe.

And she read it, not once, nor twice, but she seemed to be weighing every word; and then slowly her eyes filled with tears.

The interest of a little servant-maid in her welfare did not seem impertinent; it touched the heart that had till now been filled with aching bitterness.

When Ellen came to clear away the breakfast things she spoke to her.

"Did your little friend give you this note to give me?" she asked.

Ellen crimsoned, then answered nervously—

"Yes, please, mum. And I hope you'll excuse her, mum, if she have written anythin' not proper, for Peggy be different like to most of the folks here. You see, her come from Lunnon!"

"So do I," said Mrs. Dale pleasantly. "If she comes to see you again, I should like to have a little chat with her."

"Yes, mum, thank you."

Ellen retreated in confusion; then she came back.

"If you please, mum, you won't let on to missus that I give you a letter from Peggy. Her might think it forward, and I telled Peggy it were."

Mrs. Dale promised, with a smile, that she would say nothing about it. Two days later she was walking out when she met Peggy with a basket of eggs on her arm.

Peggy smiled broadly, and Mrs. Dale stopped her.

"Thank you," she said, "for what you sent me the other day. I wonder what made you do it?"

"Oh, please 'm," was the breathless reply, "I knowed you would be glad to hear what would be good for yer 'eart. You did tell me 'm you had the 'eartache, didn't you? And I has set my mind all along to be like that there little captive maid in the Bible. Only she had a sick capting, and I can't find one nowheres. And there be no prophets nowadays—only doctors, and they don't seem certain sure of theirselves bein' able to cure everybody. So, please 'm, I were very down'earted, and then I were told by a missionary gent and my missus that some people didn't know where to go to get their souls or 'earts cured. And, please 'm, I thought I'd just like to tell 'em, and I hopes you'll be quite well in your 'eart soon 'm; I does indeed."

Her big blue eyes looked so earnest and confiding that Mrs. Dale felt she could not damp her ardour.

"Thank you, Peggy," she said. "You are the first person that I have ever met in my life that has cared for my soul."

She walked on rapidly without another word, and Peggy stood staring after her.

"Oh my! She is a nice lady. I do hopes she will be better soon."

She was very interested a few days afterwards when she heard that the Miss Churchhills were going to call on Mrs. Webster's lodger, and she ventured to ask Helen when she came back if she had seen her.

"Yes, I have, Peggy. I have discovered that my father knew her some years ago. She used to be one of his Sunday school teachers. Then she married, and has had a lot of trouble since. She has come into the country to recruit her health."

Helen did not tell Peggy Mrs. Dale's history. It was a pitiable one. She was tempted to marry a man she did not love, for the sake of a home. Her husband proved to be an atheist and a drunkard; he led her a miserable life. Three out of her four children died in their infancy. Her only boy began to develop a taste for drink when he was only fourteen, and was expelled from two different schools. She took him abroad, and more to her relief than grief, he died of a rapid decline when he was seventeen. Then she came back to her husband, and had now only been a widow for a few months.

She said to Helen very sadly—

"My life seems finished, for all that makes life pleasant has gone from me. I have no belongings, no religion, no hope; I bury myself in books, but they are beginning to weary me."

"There is never an end of anything," said Helen softly. "Life is made up of continual fresh beginnings, is it not?"

"Ah, that is talk—a mere platitude," Mrs. Dale said a little impatiently. "I can never make a beginning."

"But out of chaos God can."

Helen could not resist this remark.

Mrs. Dale looked at her.

"I have lost my faith in God, and yet—"

She moved across to her writing-desk, and placed a slip of paper in Helen's hand. It was Peggy's recipe.

"You may smile at it," she said; "but this has brought back such an overwhelming charge of memories that I dare not say there is no God. I believe it is the production of a small maid of yours. Was it her own idea?"

"Entirely," said Helen, looking at the paper, with a grave smile; "but there are great truths, Mrs. Dale, wrapped up in this small message."

"There are," responded Mrs. Dale; and then she talked of other matters.

"Peggy," said Helen to her sister afterwards, "is a real little home missionary. However queer her methods are, she has the two requisites for success—enthusiasm and perseverance."

"Yes," said Joyce, "but we engaged her to be our little servant; we don't want her to be a missionary. However, I will say she shows both enthusiasm and perseverance in our service; her scrubbing can be heard half a mile off!"

Spring slowly turned to summer, and when the fresh-cut hay lay about in the meadows a sad trouble came to Peggy.

She had been out one afternoon on an errand, and when she brought in the tea her eyes were red and swollen. Helen was very busy that evening getting some letters written for the foreign mail, but after tea, when Joyce went out to the kitchen to fetch something, she came upon Peggy sitting on a low stool by the fire, her apron up to her eyes, and great sobs escaping her.

"Now what is the matter?" Joyce asked a little sharply. "Have you broken anything?"

Peggy rose from her seat, and looked at Joyce with tragic eyes.

"No 'm, 'tis a deep trouble of my own, and I shan't never—no never—get over it."

Joyce seated herself on the edge of the kitchen table, and prepared herself for a little entertainment. She was sincerely fond of Peggy, but she did not regard her little maid's personal experiences with such sympathetic interest as her sister did.

"Well, what is it, Peggy? Has any one died?"

"'Tis worse 'm. My friend for life has giv' me up."

"Oh dear, that is sad! Is that a friend in London?"

"No 'm. 'Tis Ellen at the farm."

"You haven't known her for very long, Peggy. But why has she given you up?"

The apron went up to the eyes again; and thou came the explanation, poured forth with many sobs—

"'Tis like this 'm—it has struck me so sudden and so cruel that I'm fairly dazed to think on 't. Me and Ellen were life friends. I was bringin' on her fine to like the heathen, and she giv' me twopence halfpenny last week for my stockin'. We was goin to grow up side by side as it were, and I telled her everythink! And when you and Miss Helen were dead 'm, we was goin' up to London to get ready for bein' missionaries. That's what we arranged 'm.

"I never forgot Ellen in my prayers 'm—not once—and when I says 'Our Father,' I thinks of Ellen and me right through. You see 'm, the two of us made it seem right. I never could understand who the 'our' were. And my heart and Ellen's were just made for one another. I often says to her,—

"'Ellen,' I says, 'you listens and I talks; isn't that just right?' I says.

"And she always said yes to everythink I said—leastways, after I had learned her to, she did. And I was a-think-in' 'm that p'raps one day you might let me go into the town by the carrier, and then I was goin' to get Ellen a cap—a nice cap 'm—for present. I've always told her she'd look 'andsome in a cap.

"Well 'm, to-day I went to the village and posted your letters, and I was a-comin' across the fields, for 'tis shorter, and there were no bulls in 'em, when I see'd Ellen sittin' on a stile, and a young man beside her.

"I went up to her 'm, just as I always does, but the young man says in my very face 'm, 'Who be this guy, Ellen?'

"And she laughed, though her cheeks were red, and she says, "'Tis Peggy Perkins, servant down to Ivy Cottage.'

"'Tis Ellen's friend,' I said, lookin' at 'em straight. 'And, Ellen, I wants to have a word with you.'

"Ellen tossed up her head 'm, and says, 'I'm busy to-day. Can't you see it?' she says.

"'I sees you are idlin' with a strange young man,' I says.

"Then she turns upon me quite angry like. 'You go on, and mind your own business. I ain't a-goin' to walk out with you no more.'

"And then she laughed and he laughed, and I says, 'You mean to break our friendship, Ellen?'

"And she nodded; and then I come on home with a broken 'eart. He be a stranger 'm, come to help Mr. Webster with his bay; and Ellen is on with him, and off with me. I couldn't have believed she would have laughed at me—I couldn't indeed; and all our years to come—hers and mine—are no good at all now. And she don't love me no more. I h'ain't got one friend in the whole big world, and, please 'm, I didn't think Ellen would have done it!"

"Oh, well, Peggy, it isn't so bad. Cheer up! The young man will go away, and Ellen will come back to you."

"Never 'm, never! I shouldn't arsk her to. I couldn't never trust her agen."

"Well, Ellen is no great loss. There are other girls in the world quite as nice as she."

"THEN I COME HOME WITH A BROKEN 'EART."

"But I were a-bringin' of her on so," sobbed Peggy. "I couldn't never make friends with no one else. She were a servant-maid just like me, and we had points in common, and we could talk our missuses over, and what we had for dinner, and the trouble the oving giv' us, and the cat and dogs, and the mice, oh! Please 'm, I couldn't find another Ellen, and she have broke my 'eart, she have!"

Joyce could not comfort her, neither could Helen. She cried herself to sleep that night, and the perfidy of Ellen was a daily, hourly nightmare to her.

"What's the good o' yer goin' on like this, Peggy?" she addressed herself passionately one lovely June day. "Better be like Albert Edward, and say nothin' to troubles that come to yer! He eats his food and sleeps, and don't make much o' disappointments. And nobody cares for your broken 'eart. The sun comes out just as fine, and the flowers keep on a-growin', and the summer don't turn to winter to soot your feelin's. You've been served shameful cruel, that you have, but just set yer mind to it that you has to walk along by yourself till you be growed-up. 'Tis wonderful what you can do if you sets your mind to it!"

And by dint of "setting her mind to it," Peggy did show a Spartan-like cheeriness, but her happy smile seemed to have turned into a hard grin, and Joyce could not stand it.

"Do, for goodness' sake, Peggy, keep from making such hideous faces!" she exclaimed.

And Peggy hung her head at once.

"Please 'm, I were only tryin' to be cheerful," she said. "I ain't a-goin' to cry no more."

"I'm glad to hear it. Ellen isn't worth the fuss; but you need not try to wear a perpetual smile. It isn't natural."

"No 'm, it ain't," said Peggy, with a sigh of relief. "It be my outside a-tryin' to smile, when my innards be still a-weepin'. But I'll do better soon 'm—I reely will!"

Failing to have Ellen's company, she turned her attention to old Job Somers, and whenever she could get an afternoon out, she spent it in his cottage tidying him up.

"And, please 'm," she informed Helen, "we do a bit of sighin' together, which be very comfortin'. For he have had a heap o' trouble, poor old man, near as much as Bible Job did have—and we reads about him together, and what he don't feel, I does, so every chapter seem to fit us."

"But, Peggy," said Helen, "I don't think moaning over each other's troubles will do you much good. I thought you were going to try to be one of God's little messengers, and cheer people up."

Peggy gazed at Helen in silence, then without a word she moved away. But she had learnt her lesson, and the next time she visited Job she put it into practice.

"Good arternoon, Mr. Somers. How are you—rather sadly? But I think you're lookin' a bit more spry."

"Oh no," said the old man, shaking his head; "I shan't never be better, and Bill have taken to go to choir practice in the evenin'. They do say he have a fine voice, but 'tis mortal dull for me, all alone! All alone!"

"So it be; but, mister, I ain't a-goin' to groan no more, for I have been a bad girl, forgettin' what I means to be, when I'm a growed-up. And I've forgetted all about the singin' heart, mister, which you'd best get as soon as you can."

"What be that? If Bill thinketh he can sing, 'tis more nor his old father can do."

"Oh yes, 'tis certain sure you can. 'Tis what I ought to have told yer this long while, but my trouble occpied me so. You do feel sick at heart generally, don't yer?"

"Ay, I do that, my maid, I do sure enough!"

"Then I'll tell you how to make it change. You give it right up to Jesus Christ, and He'll make a cure of it. You see, 'tis like this, mister: When He came to earth, you remember, He were always a-goin' about curin' sick folks. If any one had a sick body, and come along to Him, He always cured it. Nowadays, He's a just goin about the earth, a-curin' sick souls. O' course we don't see Him a-doin of it; He does it very quiet and private like, but that be what is goin' on. Now, wouldn't you like yours cured?"

"There's nought the matter with my soul," muttered the old man peevishly.

"Oh," said Peggy, "there is, mister. Yer soul or yer heart, 'tis all the same. You said 'twas sick. There be a deal o' folks with sick souls I've heerd tell, and there be no medicine for 'em that you can buy, for Jesus Christ don't mean 'em to be cured by anybody but Hisself. Now, who's a-takin' care o' yer soul, mister?"

"Myself," answered the old man promptly. "'Tis my business, and no one else's."

"You'll make a very bad job of it," said Peggy, shaking her head at him. "I 'spect it wants a gran' clean-up inside, like this here room that I've done so fine. Seems to me," she went on dreamily, "that souls be very like rooms. They ain't fit to live in till the Lord comes along and turns 'em clean inside out; gets rid o' the rubbish and dusts and tidies 'em proper. Even then, if He's to live in 'em, I 'spect He finds 'em wantin' a clean, and dustin' every day. There be always such a lot o' dirt and dust and rubbish in at the doors and windows, and if He misses one day, I daresay they gets in a pretty mess."

"You be a strange little maid," said Job; "I can't foller the argyment!"

"I'm only telling yer the way to get yer soul made well and happy," repeated Peggy. "If you has Jesus a-livin' in it, you'll feel awful well."

The entrance of Bill stopped further discussion. He looked at Peggy with a pleased smile.

"You do be a neat-handed maid," he remarked. "How you do hearten up our place!"

"'Tis you that untidies it after I goes," said Peggy, with her chin in the air. "I never can make out what you does to get the place so muddly."

She always gave herself airs with Bill; he seemed so big and clumsy that she lost patience with him. He now stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth partly open, rumpling his shock of thick hair with his big hands.

"We oughter have womankind to set us to rights, and to keep us there," he murmured.

"No," said his father, "we'll do finely, Bill, without 'em."

"So you will," said Peggy brightly, taking her departure; "and I'll give you a look up agen soon, mister; and you just do what I was a-tellin' you of. 'Tis easy if you sets your mind to it."

"I'M A-GOIN' BACK TO LONDON!"

ONE Monday morning Peggy was very busy making raspberry jam under Helen's superintendence. Joyce had gone away for a week's visit to some friends, and Helen was alone. Helen had just left the kitchen and gone upstairs to get some jam papers, when Peggy heard a terrible crash and heavy fall. She rushed out of the kitchen and, to her horror, found that her mistress had fallen the whole length of the narrow flight of stairs, and, in falling, had struck her head with considerable violence against a corner of the wainscoting. She was lying unconscious at the foot of the stairs, and blood was oozing slowly out from a cut on her head.

For a moment Peggy lost her presence of mind. She uttered a loud shriek, and rushing to the front door screamed, "Help! Murder! Thieves! Fire!"

No one heard her cries, and, as she afterwards remarked, "'Twas as well, for it were lies I shouted, but the words wouldn't come proper, I were so full of horror, but I knowed the very worst had happened, and so the worst slipped off my tongue!"

As no help came, she recovered herself, and valiantly tried to raise poor Helen from the ground. This she found she could not do, so she fetched a basin of warm water and a sponge, and bathed the cut, tying a large pocket-handkerchief round it, and then, after placing a pillow under Helen's head, dashed out of the house. Albert Edward darted after her with a delightful bark, but he was ordered back immediately.

"Stay with missus, you bad dog, and take care of her till the doctor comes!"

So back Albert Edward went, and lay down across Helen's feet with a little wistful sigh. Peggy sped on to Mrs. Timson's, who was fortunately at home.

"Dear heart!" she exclaimed, when the accident was made known to her. "I'll go round to the poor dear at once! You'd best get the doctor, for I've known 'em bleed to death afore any could get to 'em! Dr. Nairns be the nearest, but 'tis six miles away. Run up to Farmer Bedford's. He may send his lad and horse. Whatever you does, Peggy, be quick about it."

There was no need to tell Peggy that. She was off like the wind, but, alas Farmer Bedford and all his men were harvesting.

"Can you ride, my girl?" said Mrs. Bedford. "For we have our pony in the stable. I could put a sack over him, and you're welcome to take him if you like."

Peggy went to the stable, and eyed the white pony in terror.

"Would I be there double quick on him?"

"For certain you would. Here! We'll soon fix him; but, bless the girl! You can't ride into Ferndale without a hat!"

Peggy put her hands up to her cap in dismay. But Mrs. Bedford seized hold of a cotton sunbonnet, and clapped it over her head. Then she assisted Peggy to mount.

But it was a dreadful moment to the inexperienced rider when the pony ambled out of the yard. And before the gate was reached, he broke into a canter, and over went Peggy, head foremost, into a heap of straw. She picked herself up in a moment, and, barring a shaking, was none the worse for her tumble; but nothing would induce her to mount again.

"I haven't the legs for ridin'," she explained; "and I'll not waste a minute more time, but run off for the doctor at once."

Off she started, an odd little figure in her print gown and apron, and a sunbonnet perched on the top of her cap. She soon found that too much speed was a mistake, and she relapsed into a slow jog-trot along the hot, dusty highroad. Oh, what an interminable way it seemed!

The sun beat fiercely down, and Peggy began to fear that her breath and strength would give out. On she toiled, and at length raised a hot, streaming face to the sky—

"Oh God, I arsks you to make me keep on, for 'tis my missus's life I'm a-thinkin' of. I arsks you to make the road shorter, or my legs stronger!"

And was it an answer to prayer, when the hot, pitiless sun became shut off by a long line of woods on each side of the road? Peggy thought it was, and smiled contentedly as she trudged bravely on. Milestone after milestone she passed, and at last came in sight of the town.

People stared at her as she jog-trotted along in the middle of the road, a panting, dusty little object, only once pausing to make sure of the doctor's house.

But when she reached it, she could hardly make herself understood. Happily the doctor had just come in from his morning rounds, and when his servant told him, he came out to interview Peggy himself.

"Have you come from Sundale? Why, that is a long walk! An accident? Yes. Take time, my girl. Here, sit down!"

Peggy swayed from side to side.

"Please, sir," she gasped, "my legs is done for. They've walked theirselves silly!"

She remembered no more, for she fainted dead away. And it was some minutes before Dr. Nairns could restore her to consciousness.

When she could tell him what had happened, he wasted no more time, but had his trap round at once, perched Peggy up by his side, and drove rapidly towards Sundale.

At first Peggy felt too shaken and exhausted to speak, but after a time she found her tongue.

"You see, sir, that there hoss would have brought me quicker, but I h'ain't been brought up to ridin', havin' come from London, please, sir, and the hosses be mostly wanted for carts up there. If I'd a-knowed you'd want to ride a hose when you go to service, I'd a-tried to practise ridin'. I've see'd circus girls who don't think nothin' of it, but I weren't acquainted with hoss-keepin' folks in London. I ought to have kept on him, but he bumped so sudden, that it took me with a shock. I do hope as how my missus ain't dead, I does indeed!"

A great sob stopped further utterance.

Dr. Nairns, with a little smile, tried to comfort her.

"I daresay we shall find her up and about," he said. "Perhaps she was only stunned for a minute or two."

Peggy cheered up at once.

"Do you think so, sir? Well, p'raps she was, only 'twas a awful sight to see. Have you been to see many stunned ladies, please, sir? Do they get up the nex' mornin' same as if nothin' happened?"

"Sometimes they do."

"It must be wonderful nice to make sick folks well," went on Peggy. "You does just what the Lord Jesus used to do. Now He have turned people's sick bodies over to you, hasn't He, sir, while He looks after the sick souls? And I'm a-tryin' to help in it, sir. It don't take a very clever person to fetch a doctor, or to tell folks where to go for one. I tries to tell 'em where to go for sick hearts and such-like; and, please sir, ain't it a good thing the Lord don't live six miles away from anybody, like you does?"

Dr. Nairns discovered that he was driving beside a little "character." But Peggy's simplicity and faith touched him, as it did every one with whom she came in contact. He let her talk on, and did not snub her, and by and by they came to Sundale.

They found Helen still unconscious, but Mrs. Timson had managed to get her on the sofa in the dining room, and, with Dr. Nairns' help and instruction, they carried her upstairs to her own bed.

"Concussion of the brain," was the doctor's verdict. "You must telegraph to her sister, and had better have a nurse," he told Peggy.

But she objected to the latter suggestion.

"Please, sir, I'm a first-rate nurse, and if Miss Joyce comes back, we shall manage fine. I've nursed a crippled aunt, sir, from the time I was a baby, and I did everythink for her! She could never use her legs at all, sir."

"Well, well," said Dr. Nairns; "send for her sister. She will settle it."

So Joyce was telegraphed for, and came back late that evening. Then ensued some very anxious days and nights. Peggy was at her best. Joyce forbade her to speak in the sick room, and when her talkative tongue was silent, she proved a very quiet and skilful little nurse.

Helen slowly mended, but when she was convalescent, the doctor ordered change of air for her, and after a good deal of anxious thought as to ways and means, Joyce decided to take her to Bournemouth.

Then she had a talk with Peggy.

"We cannot afford to take you with us, Peggy, and you are too small to be left in the house alone. We mean to shut it right up. Nov the question is, what is to become of you?"

Poor Peggy's face fell considerably.

Joyce went on—

"You have been a good faithful little maid to us, and we don't want to lose you. We thought that perhaps you might be able to take a temporary situation with some one, and now we have heard of one. Mrs. Dale, who you know came to see us yesterday, is going back to London, and has offered to take you with her. If you would like to go, she wants to see you this afternoon. We thought it would be very nice for you, as you will be able to see your London friends again. And then when we come back to the Cottage you will be here to meet us."

"Please 'm, how long will you be away?"

"Perhaps two months. We are not sure."

"And, please 'm, does Mrs. Dale want me to do cookin'? For you know 'm, I ain't a very good hand at it yet, for you always does the sweets and pastries."

"I don't think you will be required to do any cooking."

"Please 'm, I'll do my best."

Peggy's face was very grave, and it was graver still when she set out to walk to Mallow Farm. She had not been there since Ellen had treated her so badly, and she wondered what she should say to her if she saw her.

On the way she met old Job Somers, hobbling between two sticks, a few yards from his cottage.

Albert Edward who, as usual, accompanied Peggy, made a frantic dash at his legs; but it was only a friendly recognition, and the old man looked down at him with a pleased smile.

"He be a proper little dawg, so he be! And I be always pleased to see 'im, for I knows my tidy little maid be not far off."

"I'm a-going back to London," said Peggy, with serious face. "I hardly knows what 'll happen to me now. 'Tis a shock my head hasn't got over, for my missuses are goin' away and don't want me. And two months is a long time, mister; and another place will be very anxious work for me."

"Dear life!" ejaculated the old man. "Bill and me will miss you sorely. 'Twas only yester-night Bill were sayin' p'raps one day he'd ask yer to come and stop prop'ly with us. He do like the place kep' tidy."

Peggy was too full of the impending change in her prospects to realise the full significance of this speech.

"Bill will have to keep the place tidy hisself till I comes back agen," she said. "I'll come in and say goodbye afore I goes, mister, but I must hurry along and see Mrs. Dale now."

She reached the farm, and Ellen opened the door to her. For a moment both girls looked at each other silently, but Ellen's cheeks were crimson, and though she gave her head a little toss, she looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

As for Peggy, her chin and nose were uptilted, and her voice as steady as a rock.

"I wants to see Mrs. Dale."

Without a word Ellen ushered her into that lady's sitting room.

Mrs. Dale received Peggy very kindly.

"Your mistress has told you, Peggy," she began, "of my plan, has she not? Would you like to come with me?"

"Please 'm, what will be my work? I should like better to come to you than anybody else, please 'm."

"I have an elderly servant, Peggy, who wants a girl to help her in the housework. You will not be in the kitchen at all except for meals. I want a quiet, steady girl, who will do what she is told, and shall be very glad to have you for the two months your mistresses are away. After then, I think I shall be going abroad."

"I think I'm steady," said Peggy reflectively. She was not quite so sure of herself now as she used to be. "And I tries to be quiet. My missuses say my tongue be my worst trouble, but I will try to say nothink to nobody if you wishes it 'm. And I won't speak never to you unless you speaks to me first 'm. I think if I sets my mind to it, I can do it 'm."

"I am sure you will, Peggy," said Mrs. Dale pleasantly. "I hear your mistresses are leaving next week. I shall go up to town on Thursday then, and would like you to travel with me."

"Yes 'm, thank you 'm. I will reely do my very best, please 'm."

The interview was over, and Peggy let herself out of the front door. There was no sign of Ellen, but when she reached the garden gate there was her former friend standing by it, with an awkward look of shame upon her face.

"You might pass the time o' day wi' me, Peggy," she muttered.

Peggy stood still, and regarded her gravely.

"I'm a-goin' back to London," she said, in a solemn tone, "and so I says goodbye to you, Ellen. I wishes you well, and I hopes as how you'll never get a friend like yerself is. I forgives you for breakin' wi' me, but I h'ain't got no more to say to yer."

"It were all that Ned Thorpe," said Ellen eagerly. "And he have gone away, Peggy, and won't come back no more, and I've heard tell he's goin' to be married soon. He carried on with one of the Rectory girls same as me, and I never knowed it, and I do be sorry, Peggy, for I liked you better 'n any girl I know."

Peggy's old pleased smile came back.

"Do you really mean it, Ellen? Oh my! How glad I be! Do you mean to come back to me faithful?"

"Sure as I be standin' here I does," asserted Ellen; "and I be awful sorry you be goin' to Lunnon, and I only wish Mrs. Dale would take me too. Can't you ask her, Peggy? You and me would do for her grand!"

Peggy's eyes glistened.

"So we would; but she have got other servants, Ellen, and I'm all of a tremble, for I've never been with proper servants afore, and hardly knows what they be like. Oh, Ellen, I do be very glad you and me is friends again!"

And in rapture Peggy flung herself into Ellen's arms, when they hugged and kissed and promised to write to each other "every Sunday faithful!"

Peggy seemed to tread on air as she walked home that afternoon.

"Please 'm," she said to Helen. "I'm so full of egsitement that you must 'scuse me smilin' a lot. Ellen have made it up, please 'm, and she and me is where we was afore. And, please 'm, my heart is full up agen. It have been dreadful empty since Ellen left me. And, please 'm, Mrs. Dale is a-goin' to take me with her nex' week on Thursday."

The next week was a very busy one to Peggy. She seemed to have so much to prepare and do. She went to old Job and paid him a farewell visit, and then had the great joy of seeing her old pedlar again, and of hearing from him that her words "had taken hold of him."

"You told me to come back and tell yer," the old man said, "if my old dead soul were made alive agen. I didn't much believe I had one till you spoke to me; but when I went my ways it seemed to be prickin' me and a-heavin' of itself into my thoughts, and I couldn't sleep that there night at all. And the nex' day and the nex' I were uncommon dull and low, for I kep' thinkin' o' my old mother buried in churchyard thirty years ago or more; but she were a very religious woman, she were. And texes she used to say kep' comin' through me. 'Come unto Me . . . and I will give you rest—' that were one on 'em.

"And then you says to me, 'You'll 'ave to go to get your soul cured,' you says. And then last week I got tooked off to a mission service by a neighbour, and then it all come up agen, and after fightin' and strugglin' agen it, I giv' right in, and I kneels down and calls myself a wicked sinner and beseeches of the Lord to save my unhappy old soul. And, my girl, He listened to me, that He did, and 'tis wonnerful; and I be trustin' Him to keep me and my soul together in His hands 'till death us do part,' and then He'll take my soul to glory."

"Oh!" gasped Peggy. "I is uncommon glad, mister. I telled yer 'twould make you happy, didn't I?"

"Yes," the old pedlar said, as he hoisted his pack on his shoulders and went his way. "I be wery much obliged to you, me dear, and I'll thank you if so be you offers just a prayer in company wi' me now and agen that the Lord 'll, help me to live proper like, and not disgrace Him."

Peggy said nothing of this to any one, but it sent her about the house with such a radiant face that Joyce said indignantly to her sister—

"I declare, Peggy seems quite delighted to leave us! I suppose she really wants to get back to London. She is an ungrateful little thing, after all we have done for her!"

But if she had heard Peggy talking to herself and Albert Edward the last night in the kitchen, Joyce would not have judged her so hardly.

"How do you feel, Albert Edward? 'Tis an end and a beginnin' agen, ain't it? And I'm dreadful sorry for the end. I always did have a leanin' to the country, and it's come and gone very quick like. 'Tis very well for you to take it so calm. Your missuses are a-goin to take you with 'em, but they don't want me, and I shall miss 'em awful."

A little sob interrupted her speech. She continued, "But I ain't a-goin' to fret, for Ellen and me is friends, and that there old pedlar done what I told him to, and I shall see Mrs. Creak agen, and I likes my new missus. And London do be very home-like after all said and done, and you and me will be back here before long, Albert Edward, and if you take my advice, when you comes to disagreeables, you'll set your mind to make the best on 'em, like I does. And we won't think no more about the goodbyes to-morrer, Albert Edward, or I shall be a-roarin' and a-cryin' afore the time!"

"A SICK CAPTAIN!"

"YES, Mrs. Creak, 'tis me right enough! And how do you be? Ain't you astonished to see me? And ain't I growed? Does I look nice? I hopes as how I does, for I've put on my Sunday best to come and see you."

It was Peggy who spoke. She stood in the little sweet-shop, and it seemed to her as she saw Mrs. Creak, with her mending basket behind the counter, as if it were only yesterday she had been there.

Mrs. Creak put down her spectacles, and came out of her corner to gather her into her arms and kiss her.

"Dearie me! Who'd have thought it? I always felt you'd do well, Peggy. You were so set on service. You look quite fat and rosy. Let me have a good sight of you!"

Peggy could bear inspection. She was in a neat black coat and gown, a white tie round her throat, and a white straw hat with black ribbon on her head.

Not pretty. Our Peggy would never be that, but fresh and bright and happy, and Mrs. Creak nodded with smiling content at her.

"Now tell me how you be back in London? You must come into my back parlour, and we'll have a cup o' tea together. Mine be just ready."

She led the way into a shining little parlour, with a bright fire in the grate, and a tabby cat in full possession of the small gay-coloured hearthrug.

Peggy proceeded to give an account of herself.

"And I've been in London a week 'm," she concluded with. "And I've never seen such a 'andsome house as my missus has. I never thought I would have come to it! 'Tis full of picturs, and curtings, and chiny, and has three stairs all carpeted, and there is Lucy, the cook, and Nesbitt, the 'ousemaid, and me to help Nesbitt. She's a bit grave 'm, and don't like me talkin', and she be that partic'lar I has a hard job to please her, but Lucy be awful good-natured, and my missus is very kind. And this be my afternoon out 'm, and my missus have give me two new print gowns. She said she liked me to look nice, and Lucy's niece is a-makin of them."

"Why, you're gettin' on splendid," said cheery Mrs. Creak, when Peggy's breath gave way. "I always says that some girls go up, and some goes down, and 'tis their own doin', as a rule, which way 'tis. And how be you managin' your money, dearie?"

"Oh," said Peggy, with a wise shake of her head, "I never spends no more than I can help. I'm a-savin' of it slow and sure."

"A very good thing, Peggy; for the time will come when you may need it; sickness or old age—"

"Oh, please 'm, I shouldn't think of savin' it for myself." Peggy looked quite shocked. "Why, I never would be so greedy like. 'Tis for other—Well, there 'm, I can't tell you, but I be savin' it sure enough, and I means to. I have set my mind to it."

"And are you glad to get back to London, Peggy?"

"I is and I isn't 'm. 'Tis nice feelin' you're somebody in the country. Why, Mrs. Creak, there isn't a man or woman in our village that don't know me, and says 'Good evening' or 'Good mornin'' to me. You see we be like one big family in the country; there be so few on us to know that folks know everybody; and now in London, I be just like a fly. There be too many like me to notice one in partic'lar.

"Oh, I likes the country 'm, I does indeed, but it ain't so clean as it ought to be, and there be no water-carts nor mud-carts nor any road-scrapers along the roads, so 'tis terrible for yer boots. But when I come back to London and see'd the shops and people and hosses and carriages, I could have hugged 'em in my arms 'm, I was that pleased to see 'em agen. And how be Mrs. Jones and h'Arthur 'm? Do you see 'em?"

"Yes, I does on occasions, Peggy. You must just run in and see 'em for a minute, if you've time."

"That I will. But oh my, Mrs. Creak! Ain't I glad I went to proper service! Why, do you know, Nesbitt is gain' to learn me wait at table? I'm a-tremblin' with the thought o' it, but I means to try my very best. And if I can ketch hold of the dishes and hand them proper without breakin', shan't I be just proud of myself!"

It was a happy little visit. Peggy ran over to Mrs. Jones, and was embraced most warmly by mother and son.

When she returned to Mrs. Dale's house, she assured Nesbitt "that visitin' old friends and places were most excitin' and agreeable."

"For, Nesbitt, I looks at myself as I were a year ago, and then at myself now, and I says to myself, 'Why, Peggy, you was a dreadful common girl when you first took a place, you didn't know nothin', and you hadn't seen nothin', and now you feels as if you were full up with h'information about house cookin' and housework.' And Nesbitt, I'm awful glad I don't live in Bone Alley now!"

Peggy did not see much of her mistress. Mrs. Dale was out a good deal, and she received a great many visitors, but one day she sent for her. She was suffering from one of her headaches and lay in a darkened room.

"Peggy, I remember you telling me of hot water fomentations. I wonder if you could bring me some hot water and try it. As Nesbitt is out this afternoon, I must rely on you."

Peggy was delighted at the honour conferred upon her. She was away and back again in a very few minutes, and as she bathed her mistress's forehead, she said softly—

"I does wish I knew a certain cure for the headache. You has had yer heart cured, but the head is the trouble."

"I don't think I have had my heart cured," said Mrs. Dale, half-smiling.

Peggy looked at her gravely. "I thought you did, please 'm. I thought you wanted it made well, and that's what made me tell you."

"Yes," said Mrs. Dale, "but I haven't followed your prescription, Peggy."

Peggy looked troubled, but for once her tongue failed her.

Mrs. Dale went on—

"A patient must always believe in their doctor, Peggy, must they not? And they must be ready to take the medicine he gives them."

"In course they must, please 'm."

"And there are some people, Peggy, who find it difficult to get back the belief they once had. They would like to cure themselves if they knew how; they can't throw off their own efforts, and do nothing."

"Like the leper capting," said Peggy thoughtfully. "He was in a temper, when he was told he must just wash hisself."

"You know your Bible well."

And Mrs. Dale gave a little weary sigh.

"Please 'm, isn't your head a little better?"

"I think it is, but I can't talk any more. Do you think your Soul Doctor, Peggy, would take a patient that had spoken against Him—slandered Him, in fact—a patient that had once been to Him, and then had handed her case over to His enemy to take care of?"

Peggy's brows contracted with puzzled thought.

"He'd never send no one away, please 'm, would He? I come across a verse in the Bible, please 'm, that says, 'They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick!'"

"That will do, Peggy. Thank you. Now leave me."

And Peggy stole out of the room with a dim idea that her mistress was not yet heart-whole.

"She 've never gone and done what I telled her," was her assertion to herself.

And that night, by her bedside, she added this petition to her evening prayer, "And if you please, God, I arsks you to show my missus the way to Jesus, for she seems to have never got to Him yet!"

A few days after this, Nesbitt informed Peggy that the spare room must be got ready for a visitor.

"It's mistress's nephew, the only relation she has in the world, and he's a-coming home from India—been sent home because he is ill."

"I think I like sick folks," announced Peggy; "I feels so very much at home with 'em. You see, I've nussed an aunt who was sick all my life, so I seems to know just how to manage 'em."

"You won't be called on to have anything to do with this gentleman," said Nesbitt crushingly.

But Peggy was not easily snubbed. She continued to take an increasing interest in the coming guest, and when she was told his name was Captain D'Arcy, she was silent from sheer astonishment.

"What's the matter with you?" asked good-natured Lucy, as the three were having their supper in the kitchen together, and Nesbitt had mentioned Mrs. Dale's nephew by name.

Peggy drew a long breath, and put down her cup of cocoa that she was raising to her lips.

"I've a-dreamed and dreamed, and longed for a place," she said emphatically, "with a sick capting, and now it's come to me, I hardly knows how to take it in!"

"You've a lot of silly foolishness in your head," said Nesbitt severely, "that ought to be knocked out of it!"

"Lor, Nesbitt! Let her talk. I likes to hear 'er!" said Lucy. "Tell us why you're so taken with sick gents, Peggy."

"Well," said Peggy earnestly, "'tis like this. I heard tell of a servant-maid in the Bible, and I took a strordinary liking to her. It didn't say much about her looks, or what kind o' home she had, but 'twas what she did. And I've always said to myself, that if I ever found myself in a place like hers, I'd try and see if I couldn't do somethink like her. And—" here Peggy hushed her voice to a solemn whisper, "she were waitin' on a lady, and there were a sick capting in the house!"

"Well, what o' that?" said Lucy, laughing.

Nesbitt looked at her in stern disapproval, but the bell rang, and she had to go to her mistress.

Peggy hardly noticed her departure.

"The sick capting had a illness that couldn't be cured," she continued, in solemn tones, "and the servant-maid got him well by tellin' him who to go to. She sent him to some one who cured him."

"I believe I have heard the story," said Lucy indifferently. "Wasn't he a leper, and didn't he go to Elisha?"

"Yes," said Peggy, "but 'twas the girl who sent him."

"I don't see much sense in that story," said Lucy, with a yawn. "You reads yourself silly over your Bible, Peggy."

Peggy said no more.

She watched Captain D'Arcy arrive the next day with the greatest interest. He was helped out of a cab by a soldier servant, and seemed to be in very feeble health. His servant, Tom Bennett by name, proved a welcome addition to the household. He was a bright cheery man, devoted to his young master, and full of tales about his courage and endurance in foreign parts. He told a wonderful story of the capture of a tiger, and the three maidservants listened with breathless interest to this and other adventures.

Peggy was full of curiosity, and her many questions amused Tom Bennett greatly.

"Please, sir," she said, "have you ever seen a heathen or a missionary?"

"I believe I has," was the smiling reply. "Why, bless your heart, every blacky is a heathen, and they be as plentiful as flies where we've come from."

"And what does they talk? Is it English?"

"They talks gibberish; Hindustani mostly, but there be several mixed-up langwidges which be past me altogether."

Peggy's face fell. "And you've seen a missionary?"

"Yes. Is he a natural curiosity, do you think? They ain't much in my line, missionaries ain't, nor yet in the captin's, so we didn't introduce ourselves. They be just a set o' parsons, and has churches and schools same as in England."

"But," said Peggy hesitatingly, "there be some women and girl missionaries out in Indy, I knows there be."

"You're quite right; I've seen a few. But they keeps theirselves to their schools and such-like. They ain't in the captin's set, nor in mine."

He laughed as he spoke.

Peggy, for a wonder, subsided, but she thought the more. And then one day she saw Captain D'Arcy himself.

Nesbitt was out for the afternoon, and Peggy took tea into the library. Mrs. Dale had been called away on business, and her nephew lay on a couch by the fire, covered with a fur rug. Peggy regarded him with reverence and awe; but not all her training by her former mistresses, nor by Nesbitt, had cured her of beginning conversations with any and every one that she saw.

"Please, sir, I hopes you're feelin' better," she said, as she carefully put down the tea-tray.

Captain D'Arcy turned a surprised and languid look upon her, then a twinkle came into his eyes.

"I'm getting on first-rate, thanks," he said.

"If I can do anythink, sir, to make you better, I would," persisted Peggy, regarding him with anxious, earnest eyes.

"I'm afraid you can't," was the amused rejoinder, "unless you can give me a new inside. India ruins a man's digestion, and plays the dickens with him generally!"

Peggy's blue eyes fairly sparkled with delight.

"Oh, please sir, I knows who will make you new inside. I knows the very One. Please, sir, may I tell you?"

Without waiting for a reply, she went on—

"'Tis the Lord Jesus, sir. He says He'll give us new hearts if we ask of Him. If you go to Him, please sir, He'll make your heart quite well. He will, indeed, for I knows heaps o' people that have had their hearts put right, and I has myself, sir, for I give it into His hands, and He done it. Please, sir, you'll excuse my mentionin' it, but I should like you to get well, and it do seem as if you've got the right illness to be cured. 'Tis just the inside on us that the Lord can cure. For the Bible says, 'A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you.'"

She paused for breath, and Captain D'Arcy was so taken aback, that he remained quite silent.

Peggy had said her say and withdrew, excited and trembling at her audacity.

"You've done it, Peggy. You've tolded him where to go, and 'tis his sick heart that be makin' his body bad—he telled me so. Oh, I does hope he'll go and be cured—I does, indeed!"

But not a word did she say of her interview to the servants in the kitchen. She kept her own counsel. She had had her opportunity and she used it.

"I'm as good as the girl in the Bible, now," she said to herself, with a happy sigh. "She telled a sick capting who would cure him, and I've done it too. I can't do no more. I wonder if he'll go."

"Aunt Alice," said Captain D'Arcy that afternoon. "You have an extraordinary specimen of a maid in your household."

"You must mean Peggy," said Mrs. Dale smiling. "I daresay she does look queer, but she is a rough diamond, Harry. She is a true, faithful little soul, who puts her heart into her work. She is not my servant really, but I am taking her to oblige some friends whilst they are away. Do you remember a Mr. Churchhill, a clergyman in the East End? I used to work with him many years ago."

"I remember two little girls, when I was a very small boy, coming to tea with you once. Joy, or Joyce, one of them was called. She and I vowed perpetual friendship, or something of the sort. Where are they now?"

"The father died quite recently, and they are left very badly off, I am afraid. They took a small cottage in the country, and had Peggy as their maid. I was lodging in a farmhouse near them this summer, so renewed my acquaintance with them. They are at Bournemouth now, for Helen Churchhill has been ill and wanted a change of air. They shut up their cottage, and I promised to take charge of Peggy meanwhile."

"Is she by way of being a saint or a simpleton?" asked Captain D'Arcy languidly.

His aunt looked sharply at him.

"Has she been talking to you? Her tongue cannot be restrained, but she means no harm."

Captain D'Arcy gave a short laugh.

"She stood up there by her tea-tray, and preached at me. One of the shortest straightest sermons that I had ever heard, but the suddenness with which she plunged into her subject was rather startling!"

Mrs. Dale looked grave.

"I am sorry if she annoyed you, Harry; I must say her zeal outruns her discretion sometimes. But her motive is good, and she has been the means of bringing me into touch with things that for a long time I pushed into the background."

It cost Mrs. Dale some considerable effort to say those few words.

Her nephew whistled softly.

"She is an original," he said. "Don't forbid her to speak, Aunt. I shall be interested in seeing how she will follow it up."

"I don't think you will find she refers to it again. As far as I gather, Peggy gives her message and leaves it. She won't trouble you any more."

"A LITTLE TRUMP!"

CAPTAIN D'ARCY did not see Peggy again for some weeks. He was rapidly recovering his health, and one morning walked into the library to find Peggy relighting the fire which had gone out.

"Hulloo," he said, "are you getting any more sermons ready?"

Peggy stood up demurely.

"Please, sir, I don't have no sermons," she said.

"But you preached me one last time I saw you."

Peggy's cheeks became hot and red.

"Please, sir, I couldn't preach. I never has been taught nothin', but when I grows up, sir, I hopes to go and be a missionary."

"That's not surprising. I wonder you aren't off now."

"Don't you think me too small, please, sir?"

"You're not too small to preach at home. Now what good do you think you do by it? And what good do you imagine the missionaries do to the heathen abroad? They are much happier left alone."

"Please, sir, 'tis only to tell 'em about Jesus. They doesn't know He died for them—the missionary gent said so at the meeting."

"Well, why should they know it?"

Peggy looked very grave.

"They has a right to know it, please, sir. And our Lord said they was to."

It was not many that could worst Captain D'Arcy in an argument; he whistled and walked out of the room.

"She isn't a simpleton," was his murmured comment. And he did not try to tackle Peggy again.

Peggy's conversations with Tom Bennett were lengthier and more unsatisfactory. He would greet her in the morning with such mild chaff as "Good mornin', Mrs. Missionary, is your passage took for Indy or Africa?" or, "Seen any heathen, Miss Peggy, this mornin'? Wish I could get you a blackymore. Perhaps they may keep some at the Zoo. Why don't you go and inquire there?"

Peggy would not be wise enough to be silent. She plunged into talk at once, and would get so heated and excited over it that even Lucy would have to call her to order.

At last experience taught her that many words were wasted on Tom.

"I ain't a-goin' to argify no more," she said one day, "for you laughs at everythink, Mr. Bennett. 'Tis a pity you weren't born a heathen; you seems to think so well o' their darkness. But I ain't a-goin' to alter myself because you laughs so, and I'm a-goin' out to Indy if I grows up and can manage it. And I shall tell them heathen what you said of 'em—that they didn't want no Bibles."

"Oh, they'll like 'em," put in the irrepressible Tom; "they'll eat 'em up quite cheerful like, and ask for more."

"And I would rather," said Peggy, ignoring this sally, "be our black cat here, Mr. Bennett, with no head, nor understandin', nor nothink, than be you, who can understand what's told you to do, and only makes a mock at it. And I won't talk no more to you. I ain't angry, but I pities you. And I hopes as how you won't speak to me no more, except to pass the time o' day, and then we won't be able to argify."

This attitude of mind she preserved, and there was peace accordingly in the kitchen.

Captain D'Arcy was soon quite convalescent. His servant was full of importance one day.

"The captin and me has been to the War Office, and the captin has been asked a good many questions about our expedition up them heathen mountains. I told you that we were only just back when our major died, and the captin was taken ill. It seems that they be very interested in our doin's up in them outlandish parts, and the captin has to prepare some reports about 'em. He be in high feather about it, and he'll be knee-deep in pen and ink and paper for the next few weeks, you mark my words if he don't!"

Tom Bennett's assertion proved true. Captain D'Arcy spent most of his days now in the library, writing and rewriting his papers for the War Office. His aunt remonstrated one evening as she was going to bed, and he assured her that he had still a couple of hours' work before he could retire.

"You will not regain your strength at this rate, Harry."

"My dear Aunt, I am as fit as a fiddle. But I think to-night will see me through."

Two hours after, he was finishing his last sheet, and his last cigar.

"There," he said to himself, as he rose from the library table, and pitched his cigar-stump into the waste-paper basket, "I've finished at last, thank goodness! Now to bed!"

He locked up his papers in his despatch-box, which he left on a shelf in the corner of the room, and then, turning out the gas, he went lightheartedly upstairs.

The library fire was smouldering, and cast no light upon its surroundings; yet slowly a small flame danced and flickered, and gradually filled the room with light. It did not come from the grate, but from the waste-paper basket. Captain D'Arcy's cigar had set light to some fragments of paper, and it was the beginning of a greater conflagration. Slowly the contents of the basket were consumed; then the basket itself, and as it collapsed, it rolled into the folds of a muslin curtain near. The household was wrapped in sleep, no passing policeman gave an alarm, and so the fire slowly and surely made its way.

Peggy was sleeping in a top room with Nesbitt, when she was startled out of her sleep by shouts in the street.

She sat up in bed, then shook Nesbitt.

"Nesbitt, there's a fire in our street. Do you hear them shoutin'?"

Nesbitt sprang out of bed and looked out of the window.

She started back with a terror-stricken face. "'Tis our house, Peggy! Wake cook, and let's fly!"

At the same moment Captain D'Arcy's voice could be heard below, and in another moment the frightened servants were dashing downstairs.

Volumes of smoke were issuing from the library door, but the stairs and hall were untouched, and all reached the pavement outside in safety. It is true they were very indifferently clad. Mrs. Dale was in her fur cloak, but Lucy and Nesbitt only had their thin waterproofs on, and as for Peggy she was so occupied in getting hold of her beloved stocking, that she only had time to wrap a counterpane round her shoulders.

Firemen were already on the scene. The library faced the front, and the flames were pouring out of the windows. An opposite neighbour offered Mrs. Dale shelter. Turning to her nephew, who looked quite distraught, she said—

"We must thank God we are all safe."

Captain D'Arcy muttered an expletive—

"My papers are in there in my despatch-box! I'd give ten pounds to get them out!"

"Where did you leave them?"

"On the corner shelf by the bookcase."

"I am afraid they are doomed. How trying for you!"

Then calling the servants to follow her, Mrs. Dale went into the opposite house.

But Peggy did not go. She had heard the few words about Captain D'Arcy's papers.

"Peggy," she murmured to herself, "You've got to go and get 'em; set your mind to it!"

And silently she slipped into the house again.

A fireman saw her go, and raised a shout of warning.

Then a thrill ran through the crowd when they know that some one was within. For a moment or two they waited in breathless expectancy for her to reappear. The passage, was already smoking, and the hose was kept steadily playing upon it. A fireman dashed up the steps to the door, and disappeared. He was only just in time, for out of the burning, smoking room staggered a little figure, and dropped like a stone at his feet. Holding her in his arms, he faced the crowd, and a ringing cheer went up—a cheer that brought Mrs. Dale and her nephew to the windows, wondering at the cause.

Nesbitt burst into the room and enlightened them.

"Oh, if you please, ma'am, Peggy is burnt to death!"

It was a startling announcement, but when Mrs. Dale saw the blackened and unconscious little figure she almost feared it was true. In one hand she still grasped her stocking, in the other was Captain D'Arcy's despatch-box.

The young man took it from her clasp with some emotion.

"What a little trump! She must have heard my words, and gone straight to get it."

After a short consultation, poor Peggy was conveyed in a cab to the nearest hospital, Captain D'Arcy going with her himself. And, thoroughly unstrung, Mrs. Dale sat down and burst into tears. Nesbitt drew near to sympathise, but hardly to comfort.

"Lucy and I have often said, ma'am, that she be quite unnatural for goodness. They say them that have short lives have to make up for it, and gets all their goodness crammed up one end, so to speak. I never did hear a young girl so simple and earnest about her religion, and we have remarked that she would die early. They always do, that class o' girl, but it do seem so terrible an end. I really don't think, ma'am, there were any life in her when she were brought out. She must have been suffocated where she dropped, and perhaps it was a mercy!"

"Faithful unto death!" murmured Mrs. Dale, trying to compose herself. "Oh, Peggy, how you have shamed us all!"

A couple of hours later the fire was extinguished, and the crowd dispersed. Only one or two firemen and police guarded the house.

In the early morning Captain D'Arcy returned to his aunt.

"She is alive, Aunt, but very badly burnt. I am afraid she may not recover."

And this was the fear of both nurses and doctors who attended her.

The days and nights seemed a long delirium of pain and fever to Peggy. But the day came when she recovered consciousness, and began to inquire where she was.

"In a hosspital," she repeated weakly; "and, has missus got another girl to do my work? What's been the matter with me?"

"You got burnt," said the nurse gently; "but you are getting better. Don't think about it."

Peggy moved her head restlessly on the pillow; then she put one of her bandaged hands to her head.

"I feel so light-headed; where be my hair? Have you cropped me like the workhouse girls?" A frightened look was in her eyes.

The nurse wondered at her vanity.

"Your hair was burnt," she said. "It had to be cut off."

Peggy looked at her in dismay; then tears trickled down her cheeks.

"How can I fasten my caps on?" she sobbed. "I'd jist got 'em to look so nice. I'll never be able to go back to my place. If my hair be gone, caps is no use, and my missus won't have girls with no caps."

"Look here," said the nurse determinedly, "you leave your caps and your hair alone. You won't be fit for service yet awhile, and by that time, who knows? Your hair will be grown, and you'll be your old self again. Now drink this beef-tea, and stop talking!"

Peggy lay back exhausted, and resigned. That was the only murmur that ever passed her lips.

As she regained her health, her spirits returned, and she was soon with her bright smile and quaint speeches a favourite patient.

The first Saturday after she recovered consciousness, she had a visitor. Captain D'Arcy himself came into the ward.

It was a proud moment in her life; and in spite of the pain she was suffering, her eyes lighted up with delight.

"Well, Peggy," said the young man, "I thought I must come and thank you in person for what you did for me. You are getting on first-rate, I hope?"

"Yes, sir. Please, sir, excuse me arskin', but did I drop my stockin'? I've kep' thinkin' on it, and I feel sure I had it in my hand."

Captain D'Arcy smiled.

"Yes, I think my aunt has it in her keeping. You had it right enough."

"And please, sir, is your papers safe too?"

"All safe. They would have been a great loss to me. And I am deeply grateful to you."

He pulled out of his waistcoat pocket two five-pound notes, and put them on her pillow.

Peggy's face grew very red.

"Please, sir, I don't want no money. Oh please, sir, you didn't think I went to get 'em for money?"

Tears were in her eyes. Such a little brought them there now.

"Of course not," said Captain D'Arcy hurriedly; "but I'm going away, Peggy, and I wanted to give you a little present before I left. You know the fire was my fault I am afraid; and certainly it was my fault that you nearly lost your life. You will greatly oblige me if you take this."

Peggy's smile shone out.

"Thank you very, very much, sir. I'll take it for my stockin', and it will be lovely! And, please sir, are you going back to Indy?"

"Not just yet. I am going to visit some friends first."

"I shall always think on you, please sir," said Peggy earnestly. "I always have longed to meet you, and I never did think I'd have done it. And, please sir, I does hope I told you right the fust time I sawed you. I was in such a hurry to get it out, that p'raps I said it wrong."

"Oh no, your sermon was quite plain," said the young man, looking at her this time without the customary twinkle in his eye. "I shall remember it, Peggy, every word. I shall never be able to say that I didn't know who to go to for a new heart. I haven't got that article yet, but I daresay I might be the better for it."

Peggy looked at him in perplexity.

"'Twas the sick capting in the Bible goin' so quick and getting cured, that made me think you would p'raps," she said wistfully. "I always did want to be that there maid, and when I really did meet a sick capting I was so overjoyed that my heart nearly busted!"

"A sick captain in the Bible," said Captain D'Arcy, looking at her meditatively; "now who was he, I wonder?"

"'Twas a leper captin, and the maid were waitin' on his lady, and she told him to go to Elisha, and he went, and he was told to wash hisself, and he wouldn't, and then he did, and he come home quite well!"

"How interesting! And do you think I want washing?" The twinkle was in the captain's eye again.

"I believe your inside does," said Peggy. "You said it was awful bad, didn't you, sir?"

"Did I? Well, Peggy, if I ever follow your advice, I will let you know. Now you hurry up and get well. Have you got all you want?"

Peggy smiled. "I has everythink, please sir."

"That's right. Goodbye."

He nodded to her and was gone.

Peggy fingered her bank-notes with her bandaged hands. When the nurse came to her, she said—

"Nurse, I ain't quite sure of my sight yet; How many shillin's is there in those two bits o' paper?"

Peggy would not confess her ignorance of the value of bank-notes. She had never seen one in her life before.

"Shillings!" laughed the nurse. "Pounds, you mean. You have ten pounds there, Peggy. Shall I take care of them for you?"

Peggy was silent from sheer astonishment.

"But 'tis more than a whole year's wages!" she gasped. "Oh, how could he giv' it! Oh my! What a full stockin' I shall have!"

She lay and thought of her beloved stocking, and when her burns were about to be dressed, she would say to herself—

"Now keep up, Peggy, and think of yer stockin'! That will make yer take no notice of the pain! And think o' the time comin' when the gold will roll out, and you'll hand it up to the missionaries!"

VISITORS

PEGGY had other visitors besides Captain D'Arcy. Mrs. Dale, and Lucy, and Mrs. Creak all came. Nesbitt said 'horsepitals give her the shivers, and she'd never been inside one since her mother had died there,' but Peggy was quite content with a message from her. Lucy was the one she liked best, and Lucy was full of news.

"Yes, we're back in the house again, and 'tis only the library be quite destroyed. I says that the water have done more damage than the fire. You should just see the hall and staircase! The gilt pictures and the carpets be properly ruined! Of course they put the fire out, so we mustn't grumble, but 'twill cost a pretty penny to redecorate the ceilings and walls. I'm a-goin' to be left to take care of the house, for Mrs. Dale be going abroad very soon now, and Nesbitt, she goes with her."

"And where shall I go when I come out?" asked Peggy, with a long face.

"Back to your own ladies, won't you? But you'll be with us before Mrs. Dale goes, I expect, won't you?"

Peggy looked doubtful.

"'Tis my skin, Lucy. It seems to be so long in comin'. And 'tis awful painful on my legs. I feel as if I shan't never be able to bend of 'em!"

"Mr. Bennett, he have gone off with the captain, and he thinks you an awful plucky girl, Peggy. What did you do it for? A lot of old papers be not worth burnin' yourself to death for!"

"I had to do it," said Peggy earnestly. "I b'lieve I'd do it to-mower, Lucy, if it all happened over agen. I had to do somethin' for that there capting, and he wanted 'em ever so bad!"

"You be a queer little creature! Mr. Bennett, he says, 'Of course I'd a-gone and got a baby out,' he says, 'for a man feels that be worth it,' he says, 'but not the captain's papers, for they be only ink and paper, and not worth riskin' flesh and blood for. People,' he says, 'only laughs at you for doin' foolhardy things like that,' he says."

"I don't think much of Mr. Bennett," said Peggy, tilting up her chin in her old fashion; "he speaks so shockin' of the missionaries and heathen. I s'pose 'twere the way he was brought up, but 'tis awful to hear him. He says he'd have gone into the fire to save a baby, but I knows he wouldn't if it had been a heathen. And a heathen is just as good as a baby, Lucy, every bit!"

"I don't know much about 'em," confessed Lucy, "but me and Nesbitt do miss Mr. Bennett. He were such a cheerful young man!"

Mrs. Creak came and wept over Peggy.

"I feel as if you belongs to me, dearie, I do indeed; and I was that proud of your gettin' into good service. And now you be all thrown back, and I've worritted and worritted until it come to me what a wicked old woman I was, for the Almighty cares for His own, and He were not likely to forget you."

"Should think not," said Peggy, with shining eyes; "why, I arsks Him about thousands of things, now I'm all day in bed. I'm afraid I bothers Him awful, but I arsks Him to take no notice of the things He don't approve of, and I tries and not arsks Him the same question twice over."

As Peggy got better, she began to take a lively interest in her fellow-sufferers.

A young woman in the next bed to her had been brought in with a broken leg. When she began to get better, she was very troubled about her home and little ones; an older woman on the other side of Peggy carried on a long conversation with her one afternoon, in which Peggy joined.

"Take the rest while you can get it, my girl, and be thankful for it. Who's lookin' after the children?"

"My husban's sister. She come up from Kent, and she's a clean, decent body, but I'm pinin' to ketch a sight o' my baby. He be only ten months old."

"Then you've nought to worry over. Look at me. I'm thankin' my luck ev'ry day for my tumble downstairs and my shoulder bein' put out! Why, I'm close on forty, and I've reared and brought up fourteen children, and worked hard at washin' for other folks, and never all those years have I lain abed, and been waited on like this here! I'm a-enjoyin' the rest of it wonderful.

"I've been to Margit on Bank 'Olidays, and to 'Ampstead 'Eath, but you're on the go all day with children a-tuggin' at yer, and havin' to watch yer man lest he got too fond o' his glasses. I never, all the twenty years o' my married life, have laid still and done nothin'. Why, 'tis like a little bit of 'eaven!"

The speaker rested her head back on her pillow with a satisfied sigh.

Peggy looked at her and smiled.

"I s'pose God knewed you wanted a bit o' time to rest yerself, that's why you be here!"

"I don't want no rest," moaned the young wife; "I wants my Jack and my little 'uns! There be Martha a-rummagin' in my boxes and drawers, and puttin' things tidy, as she calls it, and I shan't know a corner when I goes back."

"Don't you fret," said Peggy, with an encouraging nod at her. "'Tis better to tidy a place than to untidy it, and maybe she'll have the place dressed up fine to welcome yer. Don't you go for to make the worst o' things. You jest think o' the nice bits, and leave the nasty ones alone. I means to set my mind to think the very best always. And it do come true.

"I used to dream when I was a girl, afore I ever went to service, or wored caps, that I'd be a servant to real ladies one day, and live in a house with picturs and carpets, and have as much coal on the fire as ever I wanted, and it all comed to pass. And if you makes up to yourself about the day you goes home, it'll cheer you wonderful. May I make it up?"

Without waiting for assent, Peggy went on eagerly, "'Twill be like this. You'll go home in a cab, a-ridin' through the streets like a dook, and your street neighbours will put their heads out o' window to see who it is ridin' up so fine, and then your husban' will lift you out ever so tender, and carry you in, and there 'll be all yer little 'uns with clean faces and shiny hair and best frocks, and Martha will be smilin' too, and the room will be as clean as on a Sunday, and there 'll be a grand tea, watercreases and s'rimps, and maybe a currant cake, and you'll be sat in an easy-chair, and they'll all be waitin' on yer, and yer husband 'll say, 'My girl, we're awful glad to get you back!' He 'll say, 'We never knowed your vally till you were away from us!'"

The poor young woman began to sob, but she was comforted.

"You do put things egsackly as they be!" she said admiringly, drying her tears. "Yes, it will be beautiful to be 'ome agen! I'll try and think of it."

Peggy had also a word for the doctors.

One of them stood over her one morning, and complimented her on her recovery.

"You have a splendid constitution," he said. "I've known some less badly burnt than you succumb to the shock."

"Please, sir, does that mean die? I never should a thought o' doin' that, for I means to be a missionary when I grows up, and I knows that God likes me to be it, so He'll take care on me, and not let me die till I've been and done it."

The doctor looked at her with an amused smile.

Peggy continued, looking at him earnestly—"I s'pose you are very disappointed, sir, ain't you, when you can't make people well?"

"Well, yes, I think we are."

"It must be tryin' to you," said Peggy; "I does feel for you gentlemen, when you come round in the mornin's and finds your physic ain't doin' no good. There ain't a doctor in London, sir, is there, that be quite certain of curin' folks?"

"Not if the disease is too far gone," said the doctor, "or is incurable."

"Yes," said Peggy, the dreamy look taking possession of her blue eyes; "and I s'pose some leaves their souls till they be too far gone; that be why I does want to hurry off to the heathen."

"And what are you going to do to them?"

"Only tell 'em who can cure their souls, sir. It do seem so dreadful for some on 'em to have to wait till I gets out at 'em."

"So you mean to be a preacher? Are you a Salvation lass?"

"Please, sir, I'm a servant-maid."

Up went Peggy's chin at once. If she had been a duchess, she could not have owned it with greater pride.

"And I'm in a real good place," she went on, with a little nod at him, "and I'm partickly anxious to get back as quick as ever as I can."

"Well, we'll make a good job of you," said the doctor, "but I think if I were you, I'd stick to your place and leave the heathen alone."

"'Tis what I looks forward to—the heathen," said Peggy; then she rapidly changed the subject.

"I s'pose, sir, none of you gentlemen doctors is ever sick yourselves?"

"Sometimes we are," said the doctor, laughing.

"I never heerd tell of a sick doctor in the Bible," pursued Peggy meditatively; "sick captings, and kings, and women, and lots o' common folk, but no doctors that I remembers, but I daresay, sir, your souls is like other folk. And you can't doctor 'em yourselves, can you, sir?"

"We think we can," the doctor said, with a laugh.

"Ah," said Peggy, shaking her head; "but you can't, sir. 'Tisn't to be done by no one but Jesus Christ; the Bible says so. He be lookin' after souls, ain't He? And He don't want no one else to meddle with His work. I thinks sometimes that it be very gran' to be a doctor, for you and the Lord gets curin' together, and He gives you the bodies to see what you can do with 'em, and He takes the souls. But, please sir, I really thinks you're mistook to think you can cure your own soul."

"Ah, well," said the doctor, moving off, "perhaps I am mistaken. I must think about it."

It was a happy day to Peggy when her right hand and arm was free of its bandages. She straightway implored her nurse for ink and paper.

"I have so many friends, Nurse, that I must let 'em know about me. And them in the country looks for letters, I can tell you. Why, when I first went away from London, I arsked the postman every time I see'd him if he'd got a letter for me, and I went on arskin' him till I got it, and then, oh my! Wasn't I proud and pleased!"

Her first letter was to Ellen, and ran as follows:—

   "MY DEAR FRIEND ELLEN,—I do hope you are quite well, for I can't say I'm quite yet. I dessay you may have heerd tell of me. I had a accident which was a running in of a burning room to get a box of papers, which so caught me on fire, that I fell on the floor, and had to be carried to hosspital. Fire is a crool thing to hurt, Ellen, and if it hadn't been for the heathen I means to go to, I thinks I should have died right off where I drops. But I'm getting on remarkable, and likes my bed, and the doctors and nusses is nice, but my hare is cut off, which makes me feel bad becorse of my caps, I thinks and thinks, Ellen how I shall do, and I means to stick them on with gum in the bottles they sells. And now Ellen I arsks you to rite to me quick, for I wants to know how Mister Job is, and give him my love, and do you love me faithful like a friend Ellen, and I never will have a friend but you.

   "Mrs. Banner in next bed to me is going home to-morrer, and I hopes for next week. I hopes to come back with my ladies soon. Has you been in a hosspital, Ellen? It is a big white room with beds and nusses, and you has cards above your bed a-tellin' everybody how ill you is, and a map of your temper, which seems to go up and down they says, for they does it with pencil, but I don't feel in a temper—nothing different to what I always did. And the doctors walks in every day, and there is hunderds of them. In London you has crowds of doctors if you're ill, and they all tries to see you at once, but I likes them and I smiles and I says nothing. Now I must say goodbye Ellen, I am your loving faithful beloved friend—

"PEGGY.

   "PS.—I hopes you has not forgotten the heathen."

The last visitor that Peggy saw before she came out of hospital was Joyce.

It was a great surprise to her, and Joyce, looking down upon her thin little face, which seemed to have got so white and transparent, felt distinctly shocked at her appearance.

"Why there's nothing of you left, Peggy! I heard you were quite convalescent. You are not fit for work yet."

"Please 'm, my last missus has gone abroad, and she said I might help Lucy to take care of the house till you wanted me agen, and, please 'm, will you be goin' back to the country soon?"

"Not just yet. Miss Helen is paying other visits, and I have been doing the same. We did not hurry to go back, and it is just as well. We were so sorry to hear about you Peggy, and yet we felt quite proud of you. I have been staying in the same house as Captain D'Arcy, and he told us all about it!"

"Do you know my capting?" asked Peggy breathlessly. "He come to see me here one day. He's a nice gent, he is—much nicer than his man, Mr. Bennett."

"How do you expect to work, you poor little creature?" said Joyce, looking at her with pity. "Why, I am sure you have grown much smaller; you look fit for nothing at all."

"Please 'm, 'tis my hair," Peggy explained anxiously. "And, please 'm, my caps will make me look big agen. I'm a-longin to get 'em on my 'ead. I do feel so undressed, please 'm, without 'em!"

Joyce laughed. "I think you ought to go to a convalescent home first, before you think of wearing caps again. I shall talk to my sister about it."

Peggy did not look overjoyed at such a prospect. "Please 'm, I ain't got no likin' for 'omes and such-like. They has so many rules I've heerd tell, and I can't abear rules, leastways not when they be printed up in big letters. I shall be first-rate to work 'm when I gets out of this. I likes it very fair 'm, but the vittles be very sloppy, 'tis mostly in basins and cups. And I sometimes think a sausage or bit o' tripe would fill me out wonderful!"

Then she began to ask about Helen.

"She be reely quite well agen 'm? I be very glad, for 'twas the awfullest thing I ever see'd, her lyin on her 'ead! I shan't never forget it. And I shall be very glad to get back to my country home 'm; I'm quite one with Mrs. Creak, that it do beat London holler!"

"I'm glad you think so. And now I must go. We will write to you, Peggy, when we want you to come back to us. We have settled with Mrs. Dale to do that. Goodbye."

Joyce held out her hand, and Peggy took it with awe.

"I feels like a lady born when my missuses shake hands with me," she assured the nurse afterwards.

THE COLLECTION

"LUCY, Lucy! Do you think I could go to a meetin' this evening? 'Tis on big bill posters that there be four missionaries a-goin to speak; and 'tis in a hall, only two streets off!"

Of course it was Peggy who spoke. She burst breathlessly into the kitchen with her news, and roused Lucy from an afternoon siesta.

"Bless the girl! What a fuss!" exclaimed Lucy rather grumpily. "Of course you can go if you have a mind to. I'm a-goin' to visit friends to-night, but I shall be home early."

Peggy had been out of hospital a fortnight, and the very next week she was going back to Sundale again. Her hair was still a trial to her, and her hands and arms were scarred with the traces of the fire. But her spirit was undaunted, and when Lucy pitied her, she said stoutly—

"I was never a beauty, and I ain't a-goin' to pity myself. I keeps myself clean and tidy, and I don't takes notice o' nothink else."

She was full of excitement over this missionary meeting—and no wonder, for she intended to take the proceeds of her savings to it. She had changed her two five-pound notes into gold, and her stocking was quite full of odd silver and pence. The meeting commenced at seven, but at six Peggy was waiting outside the hall for the door to be opened. With a radiant smile she took her seat, clutching her precious stocking, which she held under her jacket, lest any evil-minded person should see it and snatch it from her.

There were a great many people at the meeting, for it was an unusual gathering; and Peggy recognised several of the clergymen on the platform. The first speakers were decidedly uninteresting, she thought. The report which was read was quite above her head.

But when the missionaries began to speak, Peggy's attention was rivetted. She followed their words with breathless interest. If they raised a laugh in their audience, Peggy joined heartily; if they told a sad story, big tears came to her eyes.

And when at last a hymn was given out, and the collection-plates came round, her cup of joy was full.

To the consternation and dismay of a very bashful young man, who held the plate towards her, Peggy slowly and deliberately hoisted her black stocking up, and deposited it bodily on the top of the coins.

"'Tis my stockin', young man," she asserted in a loud whisper, distinctly audible to her nearest neighbours. "Take it on up, and don't yer drop it, for 'tis awful heavy!"

For a moment the youth hesitated; but Peggy's terrific frown and piercing whisper sent him flying from her.

"Don't you touch it, young man! It's for them there missionaries to take to the heathen! 'Tis my stockin', I tell you! Don't you lay your finger on it, for I've got my eye on yer!"

Her eyes did indeed follow him, but the collection was taken into an inner room. And after lingering some minutes after the meeting was over, Peggy slowly went towards the door.

"What does yer expect?" she asked herself angrily. "You've sent your stockin' in, and there be an end to it. Do yer wants 'em all to come round you and praise yer up? You be a downright silly, Peg, that be what yer be!"

She was just on the threshold of the door when a hand was laid on her arm.

Looking up she saw a little shabbily dressed woman standing by her.

"I was sitting behind you and saw you lift a stocking upon the plate," she said gently. "Do you mind telling me what was in it?"

"My savin's," said Peggy, a little shyly. "You see 'm, I've bin expectin' to go to a meetin' for a long while, and so I've saved up for it."

"I wonder how much you have been able to save?"

"I'VE GOT MY EYE ON YER!"

"You see 'm, I've had one or two presents. One very big one—a whole ten pounds—that makes it come very high, and my missuses has made me buy some clothes, so I only got together three pounds two shillings and ninepence halfpenny."

"And what wages do you get?"

"I'm goin' to get eight pounds a year this year 'm."

The lady walked on. She had an income herself of eight hundred a year, and had put half a crown into the plate. Her money was her god, and she even grudged spending it on herself. She had been persuaded to go to the meeting to hear her nephew speak, for he was one of the missionaries, and she had felt almost sorry that she allowed a generous impulse to induce her to part with half a crown, when sixpence would have sufficed.

But Peggy's pride and delight in her stocking had amused and touched her. Shame filled her soul when she contrasted the two offerings and respective incomes. She went home and sent an anonymous cheque for £100 to the Society, and no one knew that a little servant-maid was responsible for it.

Peggy was stopped once more, and this time it was a clergyman.

"Are you the little girl who sent up £13 odd in a stocking?"

Peggy beamed.

"Yes, please sir; but it were more than that: thirteen pounds two shillings and ninepence halfpenny. I hopes as how that young man didn't drop none! He looked quite scared."

"Has the stocking any history?" asked the clergyman, smiling.

Peggy stared at him, then answered with a little scorn in her tone—

"Why no, sir! A stockin' don't have no history. 'Tis only kings and queens and big men have history, same as I used to learn about at school!"

"But where did you get so much money?" said the clergyman.

"'Twas a present, sir, from my sick capting, and the rest I saved myself."

"And how long have you been interested in missionary work?"

"Oh, ever so long, since I went to a meetin' near a year ago. I'm a-goin' to be a missionary myself one day, but—" here a frightened look stole into her eyes—"I shan't never have to speak on a platform like the missionary gents do, shall I, sir?"

"You might be called upon to do worse things than that, if you were a missionary," said the clergyman, smiling. "Why do you want to be one?"

"Oh, please sir, because of the heathen, who don't know nothin', and the missionaries say they can't get round and tell 'em all!"

"No, we can't do that," said the clergyman, a little sadly.

"Please, sir, have you ever been out amongst the heathen?"

"Yes, for fifteen years I have been in India."

"Oh!" gasped Peggy, in awe and delight. "But you weren't one of 'em that spoke, sir?"

"No, I was listening to younger and fresher men than myself, and found it good to do so."

"Please, sir," said Peggy, with bright eyes and crimson cheeks, "I've never met a heathen, but a missionary is as next-door as good; could you shake hands with me, please sir?"

"Indeed I will, with pleasure."

Peggy almost felt as proud as if she were shaking hands with the King.

"Thank you, sir, very much," she said; "and please can you tell me if there is heathen who speaks English anywheres, as them's the ones I must go to, for I'm not eddicated for French and such-like."

"I think you will have to content yourself with speaking to the heathen at home," the clergyman said, still smiling. "There are plenty of them, my girl. Perhaps God will show you that you can serve Him best at home. And certainly if you send your savings to enable others to go out, you will be taking part in the great work of evangelising the world."

Peggy's face dropped.

"I've set my mind to goin' to the heathen, please sir, and I'm hopin' to bring on a friend of mine called Ellen to do it too. But if God don't think me fit, He'll let me know it somehow."

And then Peggy marched away with a smiling countenance and a sore heart.

"Collectin' in a stockin' is a help," she murmured to herself, "but it ain't half big enough for me to do, and I'm a-goin' to do as much as ever as I can, not as little!"

She was very silent when she got back to Lucy, and when she went to bed shed some tears.

"You feels quite low, Peggy," she murmured, between her sobs. "'Tis the miss of your stockin': seems as if there have been a death in yer room, but 'tis all foolishness! Think of where 'tis gone, and what that there money be a-goin' to do. And if you don't feel homey without a stockin', get out another and start fillin' it to-morrer!"

With which resolve she fell asleep comforted.

       *       *        *       *        *

It is an April day, and four years have passed since Peggy returned from London to her country home.

She is standing under an apple-tree in the garden, and she is listening to a merry peal of bells.

Albert Edward is sitting up on his haunches and watching her; but a sturdy young man is watching her too, and he is not, like Albert Edward, obliged to watch in silence, for he has a tongue in his head.

"Peggy!"

Such a start Peggy gave, and a rising blush comes into her cheeks that makes her almost pretty.

"Now, Bill, whatever are you followin' me about for? I saw you in church a while ago, and that's enough for one day."

"Father sent me," said the young fellow, a little awkwardly. "He wants to hear tell of the weddin'!"

"You can tell him," said Peggy, gazing up into the pink-and-white blossoms above her. "You knows how nice Miss Joyce looked, and there isn't another captain in the world to beat our Captain D'Arcy! I'm goin' in directly to cheer Miss Helen up. She 've gone to her room to have a cry, and I come out here so soon as the carriage drove 'em away."

"And what be you thinkin' of?" asked the young man, approaching her judiciously.

"I was thinkin' of the way they shook my hands, the two of them," responded Peggy, with a rapt smile about her lips. "I telled you that they arsked me to go to Indy with them. I used to make up that I would be a missionary d'rectly I was growed-up, and it seemed as if God were givin' me a chance.

"But I've been learnin' different, and now Miss Helen have got so crippled with rheumatics, I'm not goin' to leave her. I had a long talk with her the t'other day. There be some that has to talk to folks at home, and some that has to go abroad, and as long as we tells each other about Jesus, and can give a helpin' hand, we be doin' work for God. I be but a ignorant, uneddicated girl, and I'm beginnin' to see my head is not so clever as I used to think it was. And our Lord did say, 'Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men,' and if Miss Joyce and her captain follow Him to Indy, I can follow Him in Sundale.

"I never will give up thinkin' about they heathen, Bill. They be twisted right round my heart, so to speak, and I be still collectin' for them, and prayin' for them. But I'm goin' to do my dooty to my missus, and be faithful in the small things—"

Bill listened so far, and then he held out his hands.

"Come, Peggy," he said wistfully; "you come and do your dooty to me. I've been waitin' all this year, and father wants you awful bad!"

Peggy shook her head, but a light came into her eyes.

"You must wait a bit longer, Bill. My missus is goin' next year, she tells me, to live with an old cousin of hers, and then I shall be free."

"You promise faithful, Peggy, that 'twill be next year? Them weddin' bells be in my heart and brain to-day."

"If you and me means to do God's work together, Bill, I'll come to you then."

Peggy spoke in hushed tones, but Bill drew her to him.

"My lass, you've taught me and father the way to heaven, and 'tisn't likely I'll hold back from doing what the Lord wills!"

Peggy's eyes filled with tears.

"And oh! Bill, what do you think Captain D'Arcy said to me to-day when he shook hands? He looked at me, and said,—

"'Goodbye, Peggy. I have a good many things to thank you for, but the best day's work you ever did was giving me that message the first day you saw me. You told a "sick captain" where to go to be cured, and though he took over a twelvemonth to make up his mind, he did it at last, and owes his complete recovery to you!'

"Those be his very words, and I cries when I think on 'em, for it makes me so overjoyed. I arsked God before I ever come to service that I might help a sick captain, and that's the way He has answered me!"

UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.