randpapa did not come down to Rosebuds again for three or four weeks. Mrs. Munt wrote to him regularly to tell him how we were, and we, once or twice – it was she who put it in our heads, I must confess – wrote a little scrap to put inside hers, for which he told her to thank us when he wrote back to her, but he never sent us any letter.

We didn't mind his not coming, except that now and then we thought we should like to tell him of our discovery, and hear what he said about it. But we were very happy; we never cared to go out for walks, which I don't think nurse regretted; we always said we were much happier playing about. And the conservatory and the saloon became our regular haunts every, or almost every, afternoon. No one ever disturbed us – we never heard the slightest sound in the house where the big drawing-room was; indeed, for all we knew, it might not have been a house at all, but just that one large room, for the other door – the proper door of the room – was never opened. We tried it two or three times; it was always firmly locked. But still it was clear that somebody came to dust the room and the conservatory, if not every day, at least two or three times a week, for they were not allowed to get any dustier.

It was a good thing we were quiet children, not given to mischief, or rough and wild, otherwise we might have done harm in some way, such as breaking the glass in the conservatory, or spoiling the beautiful "parquet" floor. And we certainly would have been discovered. It was partly the fear of this that made us so careful, as well as a queer fancy we had that the picture on the wall – the princess, as we still called her – watched all we did, and that she would be very vexed if we were not quite good.

"Of course," Tib used to say, "it's a great honour to be allowed to play in a palace, and we must show we are to be trusted."

For after a while we got tired of our play-story about the baron and the humpback and all the rest of it, and then we pretended that we came to visit the princess in her beautiful palace, and that she was very kind to us indeed.

Sometimes we brought our books and work with us; on a rainy day we always found it difficult to get to our secret haunts, for of course we wouldn't tell stories about it, and nurse naturally didn't approve of our going out in the damp. But after a while, when nurse found that we came in quite dry, and that we never caught cold even when she left us to our own devices on a wet day, she gave up being so fidgety, and so we often did get to our palace all the same.

One Friday at last there came a letter, saying grandpapa would be down the next day and a gentleman with him.

"What a bore that he's not coming alone," said I. "We shan't have a word with him, and the gentleman's sure to be one of those stupid Parliamentary people that talk to grandpapa about 'the House,' and 'so-and-so's bill,' all the time." For we had had some experience of grandpapa's friends sometimes at Ansdell, when we had come in to dessert and heard them talking. "I wonder if they go on all day long in the 'House' about bills, Tib? There must be a fearful lot of people who never pay theirs if it takes all those clever gentlemen all their time to be settling about them in the 'House.'" We were rather proud of knowing what the "House" meant, you see. We thought from grandpapa's being in it, that we knew all about the government things.

Tib looked rather solemn.

"I suppose it's because of the National Debt," she said. "It shows how careful people should be not to spend too much, doesn't it, Gussie? But I'm not sure that I care to speak to grandpapa more than usual. I'm so awfully afraid of his stopping us going to the palace."

"Are you?" said I. "I'm not. That is to say, if I thought he'd mind it, I wouldn't go there. What I want is to find out about it from him. I have still such an idea that it has something to do with the old mystery."

"If I thought that," said Tib, "I'd be far too frightened to tell him about it."

We spent a long time that afternoon in the big drawing-room. When we were coming away, we all somehow felt a little melancholy.

"We are pretty sure not to be able to come to-morrow, and certainly not on Sunday," said Tib, sadly. "Dear princess," she went on, looking at the portrait, "you mustn't forget us if we don't come to see you for a few days. It won't be our fault, you may be sure;" and really we could have fancied that the sweet face smiled at us as we turned to go.

We were playing on the lawn when grandpapa arrived the next day. Nurse had intended to have us all solemnly prepared, like the last time, but he came by an earlier train, and somehow she didn't know about it early enough, so we were all in our garden things quite comfortably messy, when we heard the sound of wheels, and looking round, saw to our astonishment that it was the dog-cart.

There was no help for it; we hadn't even time to wash our hands, and there was no use trying to get out of the way, for to have gone hurry-skurrying off as if we were ashamed would have vexed grandpapa more than anything, especially as he had a friend with him. So we marched boldly across the lawn and stood waiting, while the gentlemen got down.

"How do you do, grandpapa?" I said. "We didn't expect you quite so soon."

"Indeed," said he, as he kissed us in his usual cool sort of way, "an unwelcome surprise – eh?"

Tib got red at this, and looked as if she were going to cry. But I didn't feel inclined to be put down like that, before a stranger, too.

"No, grandpapa; it's not an unwelcome surprise, but we would have liked to have been tidier; you know we generally are quite tidy when you see us."

"For my part, I prefer to see small people when they're not very tidy," said a pleasant, hearty voice; and then the owner of it came round from the other side of the dog-cart where he had jumped down. "You must introduce me, Mr. Ansdell, please, to my – small, I was going to say, but I'm surprised to see the word would be almost a libel – cousins."

"Umph," said grandpapa, "'cousins,' in the Scotch sense; how many degrees removed, it would be difficult to say."

"I've not been taught to count you so very far away," said the gentleman, good-humouredly, but with something in his tone that showed he wasn't the sort of person to be very easily put down; "besides, sir, as I'm your godson as well as your cousin – "

"I might be a little more civil, eh, Charles?" said grandpapa, laughing a little. "Ah, well, I'm too old to learn, I fear. Nevertheless, I have no objection to your calling each other cousins if you choose. Mercedes, Gustava, and Gerald – your cousin, Mr. Charles Truro."

We looked at him, and he looked at us. What we saw was a well-made, pleasant-looking young man, not very tall, though not short, with merry-looking grey eyes, close cut brown hair, and a particularly kindly expression, a great improvement upon most of grandpapa's gentlemen friends, who never looked at us as if they saw us.

"Mercedes and Gustava," he repeated, slowly. "I thought one of them was called Re – "

But grandpapa interrupted him.

"Mercedes is an absurd name for an English child," he said. "It was a fancy of poor Gerald's – they were in Spain, you know."

"But you needn't call Tib 'Mercedes,' unless you like," I said, boldly – I don't really know what spirit of defiance, perhaps of curiosity, made me say it – "she has another name; her second name is Regina, like – "

Would you believe it? I was on the point of saying "like the picture;" but I cut myself short before I said more, and even had I not stopped, grandpapa's tone would have startled me into doing so.

"Will you be so good, Gustava, as to answer questions and remarks that are addressed to you, and those only?" he said, in his horrible, icy way.

I felt myself getting red now, especially as I was certain Mr. Truro was looking at me. I made a silent vow that I wouldn't try to be nicer to grandpapa, and that I would certainly not tell him about our secret. This comforted me a little, and I glanced up, to find that the stranger was looking at me, but in such a nice way that I couldn't have felt vexed if I had tried.

"Will you take me round the garden?" he said. "I am quite stiff with sitting so long."

He spoke to us all, but I think he meant it most for me. Grandpapa didn't seem to mind. I think that when he had said anything very crabbed, he was sorry, though he wouldn't say so.

"Don't be very long, Charles," he said, as he went into the house and we turned the other way, "I shall want you to look over those papers."

"All right, sir, I won't be long," Mr. Truro called back in his cheery tone.

"Why does he want you to do his papers?" I asked.

Mr. Truro laughed.

"Because I'm acting as Mr. Ansdell's secretary just now," he said.

Tib looked disappointed.

"Oh," she said, "I thought you were a – " and she stopped.

"Say on," said Mr. Truro.

"A – a gentleman," said Tib.

"Well, I hope I am," he said, smiling.

"But doesn't he," I said, nodding my head towards the house, for I perfectly understood what Tib meant, "pay you for being that?"

"In point of fact Mr. Ansdell does not pay me," he said. "What I learn from being with him is far more valuable than money to me. But all the same, if your grandfather did pay me for my services, that would not make me less of a gentleman!" and Mr. Truro stood erect, and gave a little toss to his head, which showed he could be in earnest when he liked. But then he laughed again, and we saw he was not really vexed. "May I make a remark in turn?" he said. "Are you young people in the habit of talking of Mr. Ansdell as 'he' and 'him?' 'She,' I know, is 'the cat.' I have yet to learn who 'he' is."

We laughed, but we blushed too, a little.

"We don't always," said Tib; "but you see you are a cousin; mayn't we tell him things?" she exclaimed, impulsively, turning to Gerald and me. "He's got such a kind face, and – and we haven't anybody like other children."

Mr. Truro turned his face away for half a second. I fancy he didn't want us to see how sorry he looked. By this time we had sauntered round to the other side of the lawn, out of sight of the house almost. There was a garden seat near where we stood. Mr. Truro took Tib and me by the hand, and Gerald trotted after.

"Let's sit down," he said. "Now, that's comfortable. Yes, dears, I am a cousin, and I think you'll find me a faithful one. Do tell me 'things.' I won't let you say anything not right of your grandfather; there is no man living I respect more. But perhaps I may help you to understand him better."

"Is he never cross to you?" asked Tib; "at least, not so much cross as that horrid laughy-at-you-way – laughy without being funny or nice, you know."

"Yes, I do know," he answered. "I think Mr. Ansdell is inclined to be that way to everybody a little. I wish you could hear how he makes some of them smart now and then in the House."

"The people who don't pay their bills – the people who make the National Debt, do you mean?" I asked.

"The how much?" asked our new cousin in his turn, opening his eyes very wide.

And when I explained what I meant, about all the talk we had heard about bills, and how Tib had read something about the National Debt, and thought it must mean that, you should have seen how he laughed; not a bit like grandpapa, but just roaring. I know better now, of course. I know that there are different kinds of bills, and that the ones we had heard of being talked about in Parliament are new plans or proposals that the gentlemen there – "members," like grandpapa – want to have made into laws, because they think they would be good laws. I know, too, pretty well – at least a little – about the National Debt, and that somehow it isn't a bad thing, though little debts are very bad things. I don't see how, but I suppose I shall understand when I'm big, that things that are bad when they're little aren't always bad when they're very big.

When Mr. Truro had finished laughing, he began to listen to all we had to tell him. You would hardly believe how much we told him. Indeed, when we thought it over afterwards we could hardly believe it ourselves; to think that here was a strange gentleman we hadn't known an hour, whose name we had never heard in our lives, and that we were talking to him as we had never before talked to anybody. He had such a way of looking as if he really cared to hear. I think it was that that made it so easy to talk to him; and then, of course, his being a cousin made a difference. He wasn't a very near one, but I have noticed that sometimes rather far-off cousins care for you quite as much or more than much nearer ones. And anything in the shape of a cousin was a great deal to us; we had never heard of having any at all.

After we had chattered away for some time, some little remark, I forget what exactly, something about what we did with ourselves all day after lessons were over, seeing that we had no friends or companions, for we had told him about grandpapa's not allowing us to know any neighbours; something of that kind brought us dreadfully near the subject of our discovery. We had already said something, though very little, about the old book with the scored-out name, and Mr. Truro listened eagerly, though it struck me afterwards more than at the time that he had not seemed very surprised.

And when we did not at once answer about how we amused ourselves, he repeated the question. We looked at each other. Then Tib got rather red, and said, quietly,

"We can't tell you all we do, at least, I don't think we can," she said, glancing at Gerald and me.

Mr. Truro looked a little startled.

"Why not?" he said. "I am sure, at least I think I may be, that you wouldn't do anything you shouldn't. If, for example, you had been tempted to make friends with any of the village children, it would be much better to tell your grandfather; he might not mind if they were good children, even if they were not of the same class as you. But it would be wrong not to tell him."

We began to feel a little frightened, and for the first time a misgiving came over us that perhaps grandpapa might be angry at our having played in the palace. I suppose our faces grew so solemn that Mr. Truro felt more uneasy.

"Come now," he said, "can't you tell me all about it? I don't look very ogre-y, do I? That is, if you've no real objection to telling me before you tell Mr. Ansdell."

"We meant to tell him; we were going to tell him to-day," I said. "Indeed, we, at least I, wanted to tell him. I thought perhaps he'd explain, or that we'd find out about it. But he isn't as kind this time as he was the last, and perhaps he'd be angry, really angry. I never thought before that it was a thing he could be angry about, did you, Tib?"

"No," said Tib, faintly; "and it would be so dreadful not to go there any more."

Gerald began to cry.

Mr. Truro's face grew graver and graver.

"My dear children," he began, "my dear little cousins, I must speak very earnestly to you. You must tell this secret, whatever it is, to your grandfather. It might not make him angry just now, but if you did not tell him, I very much fear it might."

"But he is so very sharp to-day," said Tib; "you could see he was. And when he is like that we can't tell things properly, and it somehow seems as if we were naughty when we aren't really. We can't tell him to-day, can we?"

Mr. Truro reflected.

"It is true," he said, "that Mr. Ansdell is particularly busy and worried. He has been terribly overworked lately; indeed, he came down here expressly to be able to work without interruption. Can't you confide in me, children? I promise to advise you to the very best of my ability."

"And you wouldn't tell him – grandpapa, I mean," said Tib, correcting herself, "without telling us you were going to?"

"Certainly not. I should have no right to tell him without your leave," he replied.

We all looked at each other again.

"I suppose we'd better, then," I said. "You begin, Tib. It's rather difficult to think where it began," I went on. "It had to do with grandpapa telling us so about not knowing the neighbours, or making friends with any one, and we had never heard of Rosebuds before, you know, and then I remembered seeing it in the book, and Tib likes mysteries so, and – "

"Take breath, Gussie, there's no such dreadful hurry," said Mr. Truro, and his face grew more smiling as I went on.

"We fixed to make a story about it. It didn't seem like prying to play at it that way," said Tib.

And then we went on to tell all about the imprisoned princess, and the old arbour, and the supposed tool-house, which was to be a dungeon, and Gerald finding the key, and just everything – all that I have written; I needn't tell it all again. And with every word Mr. Truro's kind face grew kinder and brighter; all the grave, uneasy look went quite out of it, and this, of course, made it much easier to tell it all quite comfortably. By the time we had quite finished – it took a good while, for Gerald would interrupt to tell that he had found the key, and he had made it turn when Tib and Gussie couldn't – Mr. Truro's face had grown more than bright, it looked quite beaming.

"And the portrait of the princess is like Tib, you say – Mercedes, I should say? I would like best of all to call you 'Regina';" and he passed his hand softly over Tib's dark hair.

"Awfully like Tib, only prettier," I said, bluntly. But Tib didn't mind. Something in Mr. Truro's tone had caught her attention.

"Did you ever know any one called Regina?" she asked. "You seem to like it so."

Mr. Truro did not answer for a moment. Then he said, quietly, "It is a family name with me, too. I have heard it all my life. You know I am your cousin."

"Oh, of course," we all said.

Then he went on to talk of what we had been telling him.

"Will you let me think over about it?" he said. "I am the last person to advise you not to tell your grandfather everything, but I do not think it would be wise to tell him anything just now, as he is extremely busy and worried. I will tell you what I think you should do before I go."

Of course we agreed readily to what he said.

CHAPTER VIII
STEPPED OUT OF THE FRAME

"And, even as one on household stairs,
Who meets an angel unawares,
Might hold his breath; in silent awe
We stood."

The Unknown Portrait– Sir Noel Paton.

e saw very little of grandpapa during this visit, and not as much of Mr. Truro as we would have liked. For it was some very bothering time about government things, and everybody that had to do with them was very busy. We came in to dessert, as we always did, and grandpapa was kind in his own way. He seemed pleased that we were such good friends with Mr. Truro. I remember he said something to him about his having done already what he– grandpapa – had not been able to do himself – "gained our hearts," or something like that. And Mr. Truro answered. "You could if you would, sir, or probably you have if you would but think so." But grandpapa only shook his head, though he smiled a little in a nice way.

And then they began talking again about all the papers and writings they had to do, and we got tired of sitting still, and fidgeted with the wine glasses and things on the table, so that grandpapa told us we had better go to bed.

The next day, Sunday, was pouring wet.

We didn't see either grandpapa or our cousin till we were sitting in church. We had come with nurse in the one-horse fly, which knew it always had to come for us on wet Sundays, and we didn't hear anything of the two gentlemen. We couldn't bear the long drive in the stuffy fly, and we did not like the church, for the clergyman was old, and mumbled his words, and the music wasn't nice nor anything else.

"If we might only go to the pretty church in the village!" we whispered to each other, as we whispered every Sunday. For this about the church was the thing we disliked at Rosebuds, and at Ansdell we loved going to church. It was so nice; beautiful hummy music and lovely singing, and all so pretty. And the clergyman with a nice clear voice, and not too long sermons. And – perhaps you will be shocked at this – everybody at Ansdell knew us, and there was always a little sort of rustle when we went in, and I could almost hear the school-girls talking in whispers about "our young ladies' hats;" and if we happened to see one of them we knew, and gave her a little nod and smile, she looked as proud as proud! It was just as different as could be from this ugly, stupid little church that grandpapa had taken it into his head to make us go to here, and we were very pleased when we saw Mr. Truro coming up the aisle after grandpapa, both of them looking so nice and grand, even though in a way we felt ashamed for our cousin to see what an ugly little church it was.

"He'll see for himself," I whispered to Tib, "and perhaps he'll say something to grandpapa."

For we were beginning to think of Mr. Truro as a sort of good fairy who was to put everything right.

Grandpapa and he had driven over in the dog-cart of course; they didn't mind the rain, though I'm sure we didn't mind it either, for that matter – we should only have been too happy to drive over in the dog-cart under waterproofs and mackintoshes; and when we were getting into the fly after church, Gerald looked so woebegone, that Mr. Truro took pity on him, and picked him out again.

"I'll find a corner for you where you shan't get wet," he said, in his nice, bright way.

Lucky Gerald! we heard him chattering as he went off in Mr. Truro's arms. "You know it is worstest for me, isn't it? for I'm only seven, and it does make my head ache so."

I suppose he had – what is it you call it? – squeams of conscience, is that the word? I must ask Re – oh, how stupid I am! that it was selfish of him to desert us. He always takes refuge in his being the youngest and "only seven," as it was then, when he is afraid he is going to be blamed.

But, after all, it was a good deal better in the fly without him. Nurse doesn't think it rude of us to whisper when we are alone with her, so Tib and I could say anything we liked to each other all the way home, without Gerald's rosy round face poking in between us every moment to say, "What did you say, Tib?" "I can't hear, Gussie!"

What we did keep saying to each other was mostly about Mr. Truro. What was he going to fix we should do? Would he "think it over" till he found out we should tell grandpapa at once; and if grandpapa were worried, and said in a hurry we must never go to our palace any more, how horrible it would be!

"I don't think he will," said Tib. "He's so very understanding. If he could only see the place himself, he would quite understand that we can't get any harm there, or do any mischief."

"Yes," I said, "I wish we could have shown it him. Besides, if he's our cousin, and has heard about 'Reginas,' he might find out something about our princess."

But Tib didn't care about this idea.

"I don't want it spoilt," she said; "I've got used to her being just our princess, and to there being a mystery. I don't want to undo it."

It didn't look very like undoing it. We never saw Mr. Truro all that afternoon, and it was one of the longest I ever remember. It cleared up about tea-time, and we went three times round the lawn, on the gravel path, of course, and we saw grandpapa at the drawing-room window, which he had thrown open for some air, as we came in, and he asked us if we had seen Mr. Truro. And when we said no, he turned away, saying, rather crossly, "I wish he'd be quick; I'm sure it's not a very tempting day for a long walk," and Tib and I rather agreed with Gerald that we shouldn't much care to be grandpapa's "Scretchetary."

But late that evening – near bed-time it was – we heard a quick step coming to the schoolroom door.

"May I come in?" said Mr. Truro's voice.

We all jumped up to welcome him, and nurse discreetly retired.

"I can't stay long, dears," he said, "and we are off first thing to-morrow morning. But listen; I don't think you need speak to your grandfather about your discovery just now. Wait till he comes back the next time, a fortnight hence. I shall come with him, and he will not then be nearly so busy. I have satisfied myself that you cannot come to any harm in your palace, and I am sure you will do no mischief there."

"No; and perhaps grandpapa knew of it – what do you think? – the day he said we might go through the door in the wall if we could. And he only forbade us making friends with people."

"Not with portraits," said Mr. Truro, with a smile. "Well, good-bye, my dear little cousins. I can't tell you how pleased I am to have made friends with you."

He stooped and kissed us all, hurriedly, for we heard doors opening, and a voice in the distance, which we were quite sure was grandpapa's, "Where is Mr. Truro?" and then he was gone, and we didn't see him again the next morning.

It almost seemed like a dream his having been at Rosebuds at all, especially when we again found ourselves in the saloon that afternoon, our dear princess smiling down at us as usual.

"You don't know, princess, what a nice new cousin we have got," we said to her, for we had got into the way of telling her everything that interested us; "I'm sure you'd like him, and I'm sure he'd like you," Tib went on, and we really could have fancied the sweet, proud face gave a little amused smile. "I think he was very sorry not to come to see you, but perhaps he will the next time he's here."

Then we went on with some of our usual plays, and we were as happy as could be. It seemed somehow a good long while since we had been in the palace, though in reality it was only three days, and we were tempted to stay a little later than usual. But just as we were thinking we must go, a rather queer thing happened. You remember my telling you that the other door of the saloon, the real big door, which must have been the regular way of coming into the room from the rest of the house – if there was a house – I don't think we had really ever thought seriously if there was a house, or if the saloon was a sort of pavilion in a garden all by itself – well, this door was locked, firmly locked; we had tried it two or three times, but it was quite fast. Not stuck or stiff, or anything like that, but quite locked. But this day, just as we were coming away, we heard a little, very little, faint squeak, like some one trying to open or shut a door very, very softly, and looking at the big heavy gilt handles – it was a double door, with two sets of handles and all that, you understand – we distinctly saw one of them turn, and then all was quiet and motionless again.

We looked at each other, and then we all darted forward – I think it was rather brave of us – and seized the handle. It turned certainly, easily enough, as door handles generally do, but that was all. The door didn't open; it was as firmly fastened as before.

"If we hadn't all seen it," said Tib, "I should have thought it was fancy."

But we were satisfied that it wasn't.

"Whoever turned the handle must have locked the door again on the other side as quick as thought," I said. "They must have been peeping in at us without our hearing, and then when they heard the squeak the handle made as they were closing the door again, they must have quietly locked it, expecting us to come to see who was there. I wonder who it was!"

We all wondered, but in vain.

"It may have only been the person who comes in to dust," said Tib; "there must be such a person, unless the princess herself comes out of her frame in the night to do it. Only if it were that person, most likely she'd have come in and asked us who we were, and what business we had there; it's very queer."

We decided when we went home that the next day we should make our way in as quietly as we possibly could, so that if any one were there, they shouldn't hear us in time to run away.

"And we'll sit quite still all the afternoon," said Gerald; "we won't make the least bit of noise, so that they'll think we're not there, and then they'll come straight in."

"They must have known we were there to-day; it's not likely they'll come straight in if they don't want us to see them," said Tib. "I can't make it out; whoever they are, they've more right there than we have. I think the only way is to take our books to-day and sit quietly reading; and we had better hide ourselves as much as we can, so that we shouldn't be seen all at once."

"Aren't you at all frightened?" said Gerald. "S'pose it was some kind of robbers?"

"Nonsense," said I. "Mr. Truro said he was satisfied we couldn't come to any harm there: I believe what he said. I'm not going to be frightened – are you Tib?"

"N – no. I don't think so," she replied, rather doubtfully. "Any way, I shouldn't at all like never to go there again."

But we all three did feel very excited the next afternoon, and I think all our hearts were beating a good deal faster than usual as we noiselessly made our way out of the conservatory and along the passage now so familiar to us, through the little anteroom, and then, as quietly as possible, opened the door into the saloon. And then —

You know, I dare say – big people must know all about these things better than children – how very quickly thoughts, or feelings, or something not exactly either – since I wrote that, a big person has told me that the word that best says what I mean is impressions: I am not sure that it says it to me; but that is, perhaps, because I have never thought of the word in that way before – You must know how very quickly one seems to know a thing sometimes, before there could have been time, even, to get to know it by any regular way of hearing or seeing. Well, that was how it was with us that day. The very instant the door opened we knew there was something different in the room – it seemed warmer, more alive, there was more feeling in it; and yet it was darker than we had ever seen it before – at least, that end of the room where our princess was had got into the shade somehow. Her face was not the first thing that caught our eyes, as it usually was; or was it her face?