Mary's glance wandered further, but suddenly it stopped short, for at last it was met and answered by another pair of eyes, dark and eager, with such longing earnestness in their gaze, that she felt as though she could not look away again. For a minute, which seemed a long, long time, she stared fixedly at them, and then began to wonder who it was that took so much interest in her. It was a tall woman of about thirty, who sat among the servants from the White House; a stranger, with nothing remarkable about her except the extreme plainness of her dress, and a certain hungry expression in her eyes. "I wonder who she is,"

thought Mary, "and why she stares at me like that."

She turned her head away again, and five minutes afterwards the service was over and the congregation clattering out of the church. As she stood in the porch waiting for the Chelwood children the strange woman came quickly up to her, and, bending down, said hurriedly:

"Might I ask, missie, what your name is?"

"My name's Mary Vallance," said Mary.

The woman shrank back, and the eager light died out of her eyes.

"Thank you, missie. I ask pardon," she murmured, and pa.s.sing on went quickly down the churchyard to the gate.

What an odd woman! When the children were all walking together towards the vicarage they pa.s.sed her, and Mary asked who she was.

"That?" said Agatha. "Oh, that's our new school-room maid."

"She only came yesterday," added Jennie. "She comes from Yorkshire.

And what do you think? When Patrick first heard she was coming he said he was sure he shouldn't like her; and when Rice asked him why, he said, 'Because I hate Yorkshire pudding so.'"

"Well," said Patrick, "it's the only thing I know about Yorkshire."

"But you oughtn't to judge people by puddings," said Agatha reprovingly.

"Anyhow," returned Patrick, "she doesn't _look_ nice--there's such a great big frown on her forehead. I expect she's cross."

"No, she's not cross," said Jackie, "she's sorry; mother told us all about it. She lost her child a long while ago. That's what makes her look grave. Mother says we ought to be very kind to her."

"Jennie and I shall have most to do with her," remarked the matter-of-fact Agatha, "because she's going to brush our hair instead of Rice."

They had now reached the vicarage gate, and Jackie lingered after the rest to have a few last words with Mary.

"You'll come early to-morrow afternoon, won't you?" he said, "because I want to show you my presents before the others come. I know what two of 'em are going to be. Jolly! Something _you'll_ like as well."

Jackie cut a high caper of delight as he spoke, in spite of its being Sunday and Fraulein quite near. His pleasure in anything was always doubled if Mary could share it. That was so nice of Jackie. It made it all the more distressing at that moment to remember that she could give him no present to-morrow, besides the mortification of appearing mean and stingy to the other children. She began to think that it would be almost better to give up going to his birthday party. But what excuse could she make? Then another idea came to her. Was there anything among her own possessions that he would like to have? She ran them over in her mind. Books? Jackie hated books; it was only under strong pressure that he would ever open one, and she could not pretend to be ignorant of this. If only Jackie were a girl! Then she could give him her work-box, which was nearly new, or a doll, or a set of tea-things, but it was no use to think of that. Still pondering the matter she went upstairs into her own little room, and the moment she entered her eye fell on the little clog standing in the middle of the mantel-piece. The very thing! Jackie had often and often admired it, and though everyone would know that she had not spent any money in getting it, still it would be much much better than having nothing at all to give. She took it off the mantel-piece and polished it up with her pocket-handkerchief.

Dear little clog, she would be sorry to part with it, and it would leave a great gap among the other ornaments, but still it must go--after all it would not go far, only to the White House. Thinking thus, and rubbing it meanwhile, she noticed for the first time that there were two letters faintly scratched on the wooden sole, "BM." Who was BM?

"Perhaps that's my name," she thought; "but I don't want to know it if it is. I'd rather be Mary Vallance." And then the dark faces of Perrin and Seraminta came before her and she frowned. How hateful it was to belong to them! She, Mary Vallance, who had always been so proud and delicate in her ways, so vain of her white skin, and so sure, only the other day, that her people were rich and great. That was all over now; even Rice could not call her "Tossy" any more.

It was in a very humble and downcast spirit that she paid a farewell visit to the fowls on Monday afternoon, before starting for the White House. The white bantams had become very tame, and when they pecked the corn out of her hand it was almost too much to bear. It was the last time she should feed them! Angry tears filled her eyes as she thought how they would be stolen that night; she longed to punish the gypsy people, and yet she was powerless in their hands, and must even help them in their wickedness. Poor Mary! She was very unhappy, and surprised that nothing happened to prevent it. It seemed so hard and cruel. Nevertheless, every step she took that afternoon towards the White House was bringing her nearer to help and comfort, though she did not know it.

Jackie came running to meet her in the hall, arrayed in his best suit and best manners.

"Come along into the school-room," he said, "and see the presents."

While he was showing them to her, two little heads looked in at the open window from the garden. They were Patrick and Jennie.

"We've guessed what your present is, Mary," they both cried at once.

The twins were such tiresome children! If there was an uncomfortable thing to say, they always said it.

"I'm sure you haven't," answered Mary sharply.

"It comes from Dorminster," said Patrick grinning.

"And it begins with S," added Jennie.

"It lives in a cage," chimed in Patrick.

"And eats nuts," finished Jennie in a squeaky voice of triumph.

Their little eager tormenting faces came just above the window sill: Mary felt inclined to box their ears.

Jackie, who was a polite boy, pretended not to hear. He knew quite well that Mary had brought him a present, and he more than suspected what it was, but this was a most improper way to refer to it.

"Shut up, will you," he said, and just at that minute Agatha came into the room with some visitors. They had all brought presents, and Mary knew by the way Agatha stared at her that she was wondering where hers was. Perhaps it would be better to give the clog now, though she had intended to wait until she and Jackie were alone. She was drawing it out of her pocket when Fraulein, who had been admiring the various gifts and chattering away in broken English, said suddenly:

"And vair is Mary's present? It is zumzing ver pretty, ver nice, ver wot you call 'jollie,' I suppose. Zumzing better zan all, as she and Jean are so attach."

This speech changed Mary's intention. She was ashamed to produce the clog now. She drew her hand out of her pocket empty, gave a proud toss of the head, and said with crimson cheeks:

"I haven't brought anything."

There was silence in the room. Every eye was fixed upon her; it was the most cruel moment of her life. Even Jackie flushed hotly, turned away, and began to pull out all the blades of a new pocket-knife someone had given him.

How stupid it was of Fraulein not to let the matter drop, without saying anything more! Instead of this she held up her hands and exclaimed:

"Est-ce possible? Do I onderstand? Nozing? You have not brought nozing for Jean's jour de fete? But perhaps I do not onderstand?"

It was so irritating to see her standing there waiting for an answer, that Mary, never very patient, lost her temper completely.

"No, you don't understand. You _never_ do," she said, and rushed out of the room into the garden. She ran quickly when she once got outside, for she felt that she could not get far enough away from the whole party in the school-room; from Fraulein with her stupid remarks, from the visitors who had all stared in surprise, even from Jackie who misunderstood. But it was natural, after all, that he should do that.

How could he know she had brought anything for him? And now she had been rude to Fraulein, and made his party uncomfortable. She wondered presently whether they would come after her, and persuade her to go back; it would be unkind if they did not, and yet she would rather be alone just then. There was no one following her, and she thought she would go somewhere out of sight. The nut-walk would be best. So she turned into the kitchen-garden, and soon came to the nut-walk; the trees grew on each side of it with their branches meeting overhead, and in one of the biggest Jackie had contrived to fix a sort of perch made out of an old board. There was a convenient notch a little lower down, where you could place your feet, and it was considered a most comfortable seat, amply large enough for two. Mary was fond of sitting there, and now it seemed a sort of refuge in distress; she swung herself up into it, sat down, and leaned her bare head against the branches at the back.

Through the thick leaves she could see a long way--all over the kitchen-garden, and a bit of the lawn near the house, and the brown roof of the stables, where the pigeons sat in a long row. When the children came out she should see them too, she thought, but she need not join them unless she liked. For some time the garden was very quiet, and she began to think that perhaps they meant to play indoors. That was not at all like Jackie, who always liked a game with a good deal of running in it, and besides, he _must_ want to know where she was. It was rather dull, after all, to sit there alone, while the others were enjoying themselves. Should she go a little nearer the house? Just as she thought this, she was startled by a distinct cry of "Whoop!" which seemed to come from the walk below. She peeped down through the leaves.

There was Jackie crouching in a frog-like att.i.tude behind a tree, with his limbs gathered into the smallest possible compa.s.s. The rustling made him look up, and he held out his hand with all the fingers outstretched, and a sudden grimace which meant "Don't speak." They were playing hide-and-seek.

Mary knew better than to spoil the game, but she gave a beseeching glance at him, and beckoned. Jackie shook his head; evidently his feelings were hurt, and he did not mean to be friends just yet. Mary was in despair. How could she manage to speak to him? Perhaps this was her only chance of doing so alone. From her perch she could see the pursuers scouring wildly about in a wrong direction at present, but soon they could not fail to search the nut-walk, and then it would be too late. She took the little clog from her pocket, cautiously descended the tree, and creeping up to Jackie, placed the parcel noiselessly at his side. It was neatly folded in white paper, and had his name written on it in elegant fancy letters. Jackie turned his head and saw the inscription:

"For Jackie, with Mary's love."

His screwed-up mouth widened into a grin, he picked it up, turned it round and round, and at last whispered hoa.r.s.ely:

"Why didn't you give it before?"

"Because of Fraulein," answered Mary in the same tone; "they're a long way off. Come up into the tree."

Both children were soon tightly wedged into the nut-tree seat, and Jackie at once began to examine his package; watching his face, Mary could see that he was surprised when the clog appeared, though he tried to hide it by another grin.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"It's the only thing I had," explained Mary hurriedly. "I meant to give you _such_ a nice thing. I saved my money, and I had enough. You _would_ have liked it so--" She stopped and sobbed a little under her breath.