A very little girl was sitting on the rug in front of a brightly burning fire. She was amusing herself with picture books, a number of which were scattered about her, but her small face was flushed, her eyes were heavy, and she seemed restless and dissatisfied. She was suffering from a very bad cold.

“I can’t read, and I can’t see the picshures,” she said complainingly, “my eyes hurts, and my head too. You read to me, Harvey.”

The nurse to whom she spoke was busied in putting away the breakfast things.

“You must wait a bit, Miss Ella. I’ve got ever so many things to do this morning.”

Ella looked far from pleased.

“Things must wait, not me,” she said imperiously. “Mamma always reads to me this minute.”

“Your mamma’s ill, Miss Ella; and when there’s illness in the house there’s plenty for everybody to do without wasting one’s time over nonsense.”

Ella’s face grew scarlet with anger.

“’Tisn’t nonsense,” she said; “I’m ill too. I’ve got a cold, and you should amoose me.”

But before Harvey had time to reply, except by a short laugh, the door opened, and both the occupants of the nursery looked round to see who was there. A young girl of thirteen or fourteen, but with something in her air and manner which made her seem older, came in quickly. She was tall and slight, and though very plainly dressed, one could not have passed her by without noticing her.

“Harvey,” she said, and her tone, though not ungentle, was cold and even a very little haughty, “how is Miss Ella to-day? Mrs St Quentin is very anxious about her.”

Harvey glanced round with a sort of affectation of indifference that was irritating.

“There’s not the least need in the world to be anxious, miss,” she said. “The child’s got a cold, like everybody else in this changeable weather. There was no need for her mamma to hear nothing about it.”

The girl looked at her still more severely.

“It is your fault that she has a cold, and you know it,” she said. “She was out far too late the day before yesterday. I certainly do not wish Mrs St Quentin to be troubled, but if you are not more careful I shall speak to my father; I warn you plainly.” Ella had been listening open-mouthed to this discussion, and in the interest of it had forgotten her own tribulations. She got up from the floor, and moved by the generous childish impulse of defending the oppressed, resenting too, perhaps, that her sister had taken no direct notice of her since entering the room, she ran to Harvey and caught hold of her hand.

“Naughty Maddie,” she said, “you’re not to scold poor Harvey; I don’t like you, Maddie. Go away; I’ll tell mamma.”

Madelene glanced at the little girl, opened her lips as if to speak, but closed them again.

“If she is kind to Ella it is a good thing, I suppose, and perhaps I should not have said anything before the child,” was the reflection that rapidly passed through her mind.

“You don’t understand, Ella dear,” she said quietly, and with unusual self-control, though her fair face coloured a little. “I am very glad that you don’t like Harvey to be scolded.”

And without saying more, she left the room.

”‘Scolded’ indeed, by a upsetting piece of goods like her. Very fine, Miss Madelene, but you’re not mistress yet, nor never shall be to me, I can promise you,” muttered Harvey.

But Ella was clinging to her.

“You must read to me now,” the child urged. “I’m very good to you, Harvey. I wouldn’t let sister Maddie scold you, so you should be nice to me.”

A slight and not pleasant smile crossed the maid’s face.

“Come along then, Miss Ella,” she said. “If you’ll be very good and not worrit-worrit if I’m out of your sight for half a minute, I’ll read to you for a little. What is it you want?”

She seated herself comfortably in a rocking chair by the fire, and took the child on her knee.

“Here now,” she said, carelessly picking up the first picture book that came to hand, “I’ll read you some of these nursery rhymes – ‘Little Boy Blue.’”

“No,” said Ella crossly, “I don’t like singy stories. Read me real ones. ‘Laddin’s’ very nice.” But Harvey’s eyes had caught sight of another of the bright-coloured books.

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, with a little malicious laugh, “we’ll have ‘Cinderella,’ Miss Ella. ‘Cinderella, Miss Ella,’ there’s a rhyme for you! It’s like your name, and she’s like you too. She had two big sisters, and her mamma was – ” Here she coughed and stopped short.

“Her mamma was dead. I know the story,” put in Ella, “my mamma isn’t dead, so it isn’t like me. You’re talking nonsense, Harvey,” and she pushed the book aside and began to wriggle about impatiently.

“I’m not talking nonsense,” said Harvey sharply. “Just listen now, Miss Ella. Cinderella had two big sisters, and they were very cross to her – at least not always perhaps, but pretty often, and they’d come and scold for nothing at all.”

“Like Maddie this morning,” said Ella; “but it wasn’t me she scolded. It was you. The story isn’t like me; you’re very silly, Harvey.”

Harvey began to lose her temper; she was not going to be called “silly” even by a baby.

“Just you take care what you say, Miss Ella,” she said roughly, “you don’t know anything about it. The story doesn’t say the big sisters were bad to her when she was a little girl like you. But some day you’ll grow up and be a young lady, and then you’ll see. How would you like to have all the dirty work to do and old shabby clothes to wear, while Miss Maddie and Miss Ermie went flaunting about in silks and satins and feathers?”

And as she spoke she opened the book at one of the pictures, where the sisters were arraying themselves for the ball, while sweet Cinderella crouched forlorn in a corner.

Ella stared at the book with an attention she had never before bestowed upon it, her face very solemn indeed. Suddenly her expression changed.

“No,” she said, “it’s not like me and Maddie and Ermie. Her sisters are very ugly, and they’ve horrid black curls. Maddie and Ermie aren’t ugly, and they haven’t nasty cross faces. No; they’d never be so naughty,” and she looked up in triumph, though there was a little quaver of anxiety in her voice still.

“Oh, very well,” said Harvey, “if you’re so fond of your sisters as all that, however unkind they are to poor Harvey – ”

“I didn’t say you– I think Maddie was very naughty to scold you, dear Harvey. I only said they wouldn’t be so c’uel to me if I was big – not like these piggy sisters in the book,” said Ella, using the strongest language in her repertory.

“Oh, well, you’re not big yet. Perhaps you’ll wish for poor Harvey all the same some day, though you don’t care for her now. Of course poor Harvey’s only a servant, and Miss Maddie and Miss Ermie are grand, rich young ladies.”

“And I shall be a grand, rich young lady too,” said Ella.

Harvey only laughed.

Ella grew very excited.

“Harvey, say I shall be. You must say it,” she repeated, shaking the maid’s arm.

“Miss Ella, for shame. What a little fury you are. How can I say what you’ll be? You should be a grand, rich young lady if I was your sister, but I can’t speak for others.”

“What do you mean?” cried Ella. “Mamma will let me be a grand young lady. Maddie and Ermie aren’t over mamma. Harvey, do you hear?”

“Hush,” said the nurse, suddenly changing her tone, “your mamma’s very ill, Miss Ella, and if you make such a noise they’ll all think you very naughty. I was only joking – of course you’ll be a beautiful young lady too, some day.”

But Ella was not to be so easily smoothed down.

“You weren’t joking,” she said resentfully. “I’ll ask Maddie if it’s true,” and she began to scramble down. “I’ll take the book and tell her you said it was like me and them.”

Harvey caught hold of her.

“If you do, Miss Ella,” she said, “you’ll get such a scolding as you’ve never had in your life. And I’ll be sent away – you’ll see – and it’ll be all your fault.” Ella stopped short.

“Then why did you say it to me?” she asked, for she was a clever and quick-witted child.

“Oh, well – I shouldn’t have said it. When you’re older you’ll understand better, darling. You see Harvey loves you so – she’d like you to be the eldest and have everything like a little princess. The third’s never the same – and Harvey doesn’t like to think of her Miss Ella coming in for the old clothes and the leavings, and the worst of it all, so to say.”

Ella had calmed down now, but she sat listening intently with a startled, uneasy look, painful to see on her pretty little face.

“But mamma won’t let me have the shabby old clothes, mamma loves me too, Harvey,” she persisted.

“Yes, yes – but poor mamma’s very ill. But never mind, darling. While Harvey’s here no one shall put upon you, and then there’s your Auntie Phillis. She loves my Miss Ella, that she does.”

“Auntie’s not here,” said the child.

“No, but may be she’ll come some day soon,” said Harvey mysteriously, “only don’t you say I said so. You don’t want to get poor Harvey scolded again, do you, darling?”

“No,” said Ella, but that was all, and when Harvey kissed her, though she submitted quietly, she did not in any way return the caress.

Then she got down from her nurse’s knee and collected her picture books together, and put them away.

“Sha’n’t I read anything to you? There’s lots of other pretty stories,” Harvey asked.

“No,” said Ella again, “I don’t like no stories.”

And once or twice during that day, even Harvey was startled, and a little conscience-stricken at the expression on the child’s face.

That same morning in a pretty sitting-room on the ground floor of the house, Madelene St Quentin and her sister Ermine were reading, or rather preparing some lessons together, when the door opened and an elderly lady in walking dress came in. Madelene started to her feet.

“Oh, Aunt Anna,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad you have come. I have felt so fidgety all the morning, I couldn’t settle to anything. It is so good of you to have come over again so early.”

“I promised you I would, my dear,” the new-comer replied. “I knew you would be anxious to see me after your father being with us last night.”

“You had a long talk with mamma first, and then you and papa had time to consider it all?” said Madelene, “oh, I do hope – ”

Lady Cheynes interrupted her.

“I will tell you all about it,” she said, “but first tell me – how is poor Ellen this morning? Had she a good night?”

Madelene shook her head.

“Not very, I’m afraid. It is so provoking – with all our care to save her anxiety – last night when Ella was taken to say good-night to her, mamma found out in an instant that the child had a cold, and she has been worrying about it ever since. I spoke as severely as I could to Harvey this morning. Of course it is all her fault.”

Lady Cheynes in her turn shook her head.

“Of course it is her fault. But I am afraid it is no use for you to say anything, my dear Maddie. It is a vicious circle. Ellen’s faith in Harvey must not be destroyed, for it could only be done at a terrible risk to your poor mother – and yet the more Harvey is left to herself the more and more she presumes upon it.”

“I am not quite sure of that, Aunt Anna,” said Madelene. “There must be good in Harvey, I hope – Ella is very fond of her.”

Lady Cheynes tapped the umbrella she held in her hand, impatiently on the floor. She was a small, handsome old lady, scarcely indeed old in point of years, but looking so, thanks to her white hair and the style of dress she affected. She was never seen except in black, but black of the richest, though as she had not changed the fashion of her garments since her widowhood some thirty years ago, she had something quaint and old-world-like about her, decidedly pleasing however when combined with freshness of material and exquisite neatness of finish. She had bright dark eyes, and delicate features. A very attractive old lady, but somewhat awe-inspiring nevertheless.

“Rubbish, Maddie,” she said sharply. “I don’t mean,” she hastened to add, “that there is no good in the woman. If so, she would be a fiend. But as for the child being fond of her – that says nothing; people talk a good deal of nonsense about children’s innate discernment. There is nothing so easy as to humbug a child – up to a certain point, that’s to say. Harvey can easily wheedle Ella into fancying herself fond of her, when it suits the woman’s purpose. But at bottom I doubt if the child does care for her.”

“Ella has a generous nature,” said Madelene.

“Yes,” Ermine agreed, speaking for the first time; “she always flies up in defence of any one she thinks ill-used.”

Lady Cheynes glanced across the room at the last speaker.

“I did not notice you were there, Ermie,” she said abruptly, “Philip is kicking his heels somewhere about. Suppose you go out and look for him? The two of you can entertain each other for half an hour or so while I talk to Madelene. It’s no secrets – you needn’t feel hurt. But I never have been and never shall be able to talk comfortably à trois.”

Ermine got up from her place at the table and moved towards the door, turning a laughing face to Lady Cheynes as she did so.

“My feelings offended, auntie!” she said. “That would be something new, wouldn’t it? Now do make a nice and gratifying little speech to me for once.”

Lady Cheynes smiled at Ermine as she left the room.

“I wish Ella were as good tempered as Ermie,” said she, with a sigh. “The child is very spoilt; that is the worst of it. And that brings me to what you are so anxious about, my dear.”

“Yes?” said Madelene eagerly, her face flushing, and her large soft eyes lighting up.

But her aunt hesitated. She knew the extreme disappointment her next words must convey, and though her manner was abrupt, her heart was tender and sympathising.

“It is no use, Maddie. I said everything I could think of yesterday to poor Ellen. And your father, as we know, agrees with us. But of course he cannot but give in now to that poor child of a wife of his. It would be brutal not to do so.”

Madelene did not speak, but her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, auntie,” she said at last.

“You must be truly unselfish, my dear, and not take it to heart too much.”

“I had thought it would have been a comfort to poor mamma, for she has been very good to Ermine and me. I think – I do think, considering she has had us herself since we were quite little, that she might trust us,” said Madelene in a tremulous voice.

“She does – thoroughly,” said Lady Cheynes, “don’t make it more painful for yourself by any doubts of that kind, my dear child. And there is reason in what she says, too. Ellen is not a foolish woman.”

“No,” said Madelene, “I did not mean – ”

“You are very young, you know, my dear, though older than your years. And even as it is, things will not be easy for you. That is what poor Ellen feels. There is your father – it is very hard upon him, still a young man, to be a second time left a widower. And he will never marry again – not a third time.”

Madelene started. Her aunt patted her hand gently.

“Don’t be shocked at my alluding to such a possibility,” she said. “I know your father and Ellen would like you to understand all. So much hangs on you, Maddie. It is to you Ellen confides your father, and that is one of her great reasons for wishing the child to be away. It would be too much upon you. I see that myself. You would have to get a first-rate nursery-governess, or some one of that kind, or, worst of all, you might be bound to keep Harvey.”

“But Harvey will stay with her as it is – stay and do her best to poison our little sister against us,” said Madelene. “For you see, aunt, the – the position will be rather an awkward one afterwards, when we are all grown-up, I mean. And Ella must come back to her own home, some time.”

“If she lives,” said Lady Cheynes, “but that is another point. Ellen may be fanciful – I hardly agree with her myself; her own illness seems to me accidental. Her family is strong, but, rightly or wrongly, she thinks Ella very delicate. And Mrs Robertson lives in a mild climate and would take the child abroad if necessary. In that way there is something to be said in favour of the plan.”

“Yes,” said Madelene, but she still sighed. “Aunt Anna,” she added in a moment or two, “I will try and bear the disappointment well, and be as cheerful as I can with poor mamma, for – for the little while that remains.”

“Yes, dear, I am sure you will. Now, perhaps, we had better call in Ermine and Philip – he is anxious to see all he can of you before he goes. And next week Bernard will be here – they will go back to school together.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Madelene, “I am so glad Bernard is coming. Ermie and I have always wished so to see him. Only – everything is so sad here just now,” and she hesitated.

“You and Ermie must come over once or twice to spend a day with us while the boys are still here. Ellen would like it – she was saying only yesterday how unhappy it makes her to see your young lives so saddened.”

“Poor mamma, she is very unselfish,” said Madelene.

Then Lady Cheynes got up, and followed by her grand-niece, made her way out of the room, down a long passage with a glass door at the end leading into the garden, where for a moment she stood looking out.

“I don’t see them,” she said; “get a shawl, Maddie, and we’ll go and look for them. A breath of air will do you good.”

She slipped her hand through the girl’s arm, and together they walked slowly along the broad gravelled terrace, which ran round two sides of the house.

“They may have gone to the stables,” said Madelene. “Ermine is always glad of an excuse for visiting the horses, and papa won’t allow her to go alone.”

“I should think not, indeed,” said the old lady. “Even with Philip, I don’t know – Philip is only a boy – ”

Laughing voices were just then heard.

“There they are,” said Lady Cheynes, as round a corner came the two she and Madelene had come out to look for. “Dear me, running races, are they? Ermie is really a tom-boy, I am afraid.”

But a very attractive tom-boy, it must be allowed, she could not but add to herself, as Ermine, her cheeks flushed with running, her bright brown hair, some shades darker than Maddie’s, flying behind her, her merry hazel eyes sparkling with fun, came rushing towards them.

“We’ve had such a race,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I expect it’s about the last time I’ll have a chance of gaining. Philip’s legs are growing so long.”

“Time they should,” said Philip. “I think you forget, Ermine, that I was fourteen last week. And I’m not anything like as tall as most fellows of my age.”

“Take your hands out of your pockets if you want to look taller,” said Madelene in an elder-sisterly tone. “It makes boys slouch so dreadfully. And, by the by, Philip, you haven’t even offered to shake hands with me.”

The boy started and looked ashamed.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Madelene, I do, indeed,” he said, “won’t you forgive me?”

He looked up at her – she was a little taller than he – with real distress in his dark eyes. He was a strikingly handsome boy, with his grandmother’s delicate features, though in his case sun-browned and stronger looking, and eyes which the old lady used to say confidentially to some of her friends, made her tremble for the mischief they might do in the future. Already in the present they were not to be resisted. Madelene laughed a little and held out her own hand, which Philip took eagerly.

“I am glad,” she said, “to hear from Aunt Anna, that your friend Bernard is coming next week to keep you in order till you go back to school.”

“Oh,” Ermine exclaimed, “is he coming? I’m not glad at all. I hate prigs.”

Rather to Madelene’s surprise Philip said nothing. “Is he a prig?” she asked.

Philip coloured a little.

“No,” he said, “of course he isn’t. Ask granny. He’s not a prig, but I’m cross.”

Lady Cheynes looked rather puzzled.

“What’s the matter, Phil?” she said. “You were pleased enough this morning about Bernard’s coming.”

“I know I was,” said the boy. “But it’s since coming over here and feeling the old jolly way. It’s so horrid not to see more of each other. I’d rather have you girls than any one when I’m at home. And Bernard’s older and you don’t know him. He’ll make you seem quite grown-up, and – ”

“Maddie, perhaps – not me,” Ermine interrupted. “Never mind, Phil. You and I will keep each other company.”

“But I’ve scarcely seen you these holidays,” said Philip. “Granny, can’t they come over to us?” Madelene shook her head.

“Not just now,” she said sadly. “We really have a good deal to do. One or other of us has to walk or ride with papa every afternoon – mamma fidgets so if she thinks he doesn’t go out – and then one of us must be within hail in case she was worse. And then there’s Ella – ”

There was Ella in fact. For as she said the words, a little shrill voice came sounding over the lawn.

“Maddie, Ermie, I’m here. And oh there’s big Phil. Take me a ride, Phil, on you’s shoulders, do, do.”

“Horrid little minx – ” the boy was beginning to say, though in a low voice, but the words died on his lips. The little figure looked so bright and innocent as it flew towards them like a lapwing, heedless of Harvey and her remonstrances in the background, sure, with the irresistible confidence of childhood, of its welcome.

“Good morning, godmother,” she said, holding up her sweet little face for a kiss. “I’se got a bad cold,” and she tried to cough, “but Harvey said it would do me good to come out a little in the sun. And I’m going to see mamma when I go in, to let her see my cold isn’t worse. Oh, big Phil, do take me a ride on your shoulders.”

She clasped her hands entreatingly. Everything she did was full of pretty childish grace, when, that is to say, Ella chose to be in good temper.

“Hoist her up,” said Philip, and between them the two elder sisters managed to settle the child on his shoulders.

“That’s right – gallop away. Oh! how nice!” she exclaimed, and when after two or three canters round the lawn, which was really as much as ever Philip had breath for, he deposited her again safely on the ground, she thanked him as graciously as a little princess.

“What a pity Maddie and Ermie are too big for you to ride them too,” she said condescendingly, at which they all laughed.

“Yes,” said Lady Cheynes, smiling, but not for Ella to hear, “you can be generous enough, my little girl, when you get your own way.”

“And when she is first” added Ermine. “It is too funny, auntie, to see that sort of feeling in Ella, already. I’m sure Maddie and I weren’t like that when we were little.”

Lady Cheynes looked round, Harvey was coming up the path, the old lady made a little sign to Ermine to take care.

“I think perhaps Miss Ella has been out long enough, if you’ll excuse me, my lady,” said the maid, in her smoothest tones.

“Take her in then by all means,” said Lady Cheynes. “Ella, my dear, your nurse is waiting for you.”

Ella was playing with Phil, a few paces off.

“I won’t go in,” she said coolly.

Madelene took her by the hand.

“Come, dear,” she said, “you mustn’t make your cold worse.”

The child pulled away from her.

“You’re very naughty, Maddie,” she said. “You only want me to go away that you and Ermie may play with Phil yourselves. Phil, say I’m not to go.”

“Not I,” said Philip. “You’re a spoilt, rude little girl, and I’m very sorry I gave you a ride.”

Ella turned upon him like a little fury, but Harvey interposed.

“Come, Miss Ella, my dear,” she said. “Sir Philip will think you’re growing into a baby instead of a big girl if you dance about like that.”

And by dint of coaxing and persuasion which Harvey knew how to employ skilfully enough when it suited her, the child was at last got away.

“Grandmother,” said Philip Cheynes, half-an-hour or so later, when the two were on their way home in the old lady’s pony-carriage, “don’t you think it is a great pity that Colonel St Quentin married again? It has brought them all nothing but trouble – Mrs St Quentin so delicate, and that spoilt little brat.”

“You mustn’t abuse my godchild, Phil,” Lady Cheynes replied. “She might be a charming child. And her poor mother – No, I think Madelene and Ermie owe a great deal to her.”

“Oh, well,” said Philip, boyishly, “I suppose they do. Maddie’s awfully cut up about Ella’s going away from them. For my part, I’m very glad she is going away. Still, she is a jolly little thing when she’s in a good temper.”