She did come in very soon. The bell rang, and the children ran to the door to peep out, and when Lady Nearn hurried in, there she found the four as happy as could be--Anne and Serry so amused by the children that they had quite forgotten all about how frightened nurse and all of us would be getting; indeed, they'd almost forgotten what they had come to this strange house about at all.

Lady Nearn did look astonished. For half a minute she took Serena for Flossy Barry.

'Flossy,' she said, 'I wrote to your----' but then she stopped, and just stared in surprise.

Anne had got back her wits by then, and she explained it all--how it was partly, anyway, her fault about the brooch being lost, and how pleased she'd be to find it, and all about what Flossy had told them, and how she and Serry had come off by themselves, not even knowing the name, or the number of the house.

Lady Nearn was very kind, but I don't think she quite took in that it was really naughty of them to have come out without leave. You see, Anne hadn't got to think it naughty herself, yet. She fetched the brooch just to show Anne--though, indeed, from the way Anne spoke of it, she was sure it wasn't it, and of course it wasn't!

Anne could nearly have cried with disappointment.

Then it did strike Lady Nearn to ask how they were going home again. It was quite dark by now. She couldn't send a servant with them, for the house was rather upset--three of the children were ill.

'Indeed,' she said, 'I must write to Mrs. Warwick to explain. I hope no harm will come of it, as you have only seen the twins, who are quite well, so far, and separated from the others.'

But all the same she seemed anxious to get them away, and she suddenly rang the bell and told George--who must have looked rather astonished to see the 'school brats' such friends with his mistress--to run round to the stables and tell the coachman to call at the house on his way to fetch Lord Nearn from somewhere or other. That was how Anne and Serry came home in a carriage.

We didn't hear the whole ins and outs of the story at once, but we made the girls tell it us over afterwards.

Just now Anne could hardly get through with it; for she began crying when she understood how frightened mums had been, and begging her to forgive her.

Mums did, of course--she always does. And then she sent us upstairs to finish our tea. But as we left the library I heard her say to herself--

'I wonder what Lady Nearn can be going to write to me about.'

Serena was quite jolly, and as hungry as anything.

'All's well that ends well,' she said, tossing her hair.

Anne turned upon her pretty sharply. I wasn't sorry.

'Serry,' she said, 'I know you're not to blame like me, for I made you come. But you might see now how wrong it was, as I do. And "ends well"

indeed! Why, we've given mums and all of them a dreadful fright, and we haven't found the brooch.'

And--but I must tell that in a new chapter. No, it wasn't 'ends well'

_yet_, by a long way.

'If only you'd asked _me_, Anne,' said Miss Maud Wisdom.

CHAPTER VI

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

I was alone with mums in her room the next morning when her letters were brought up. The poor little thing had a headache and was very tired, and, for once, she hadn't got up to breakfast. She had not been able to go to sleep the night before--really she had had a lot of worries lately--and then when she did, it was so nearly morning that she slept on ever so much longer than usual. For she's not a bit lazy, like some mothers I know.

When she _does_ have breakfast in bed, she lets me look after her. It's awfully jolly. Father is sure to say as he goes off, 'You'll see to your mother, Jack.'

The girls don't mind. Anne wouldn't be much good at anything like that--at least, she wouldn't have been _then_, though she's ever so much better _now_ about forgetting things, and spilling things, and seeming as if all her fingers were thumbs, you know. Hebe is very handy, and she always was. But she never put herself before Anne, and so we got in the way of me being the one to do most for mums. I told you at the beginning--didn't I?--that some people might think me rather a girl-y boy, but I don't mind one sc.r.a.p of an atom if they do. I have my own ideas. I know the splendidest cricketer and footballer you ever saw is a fellow whose sister's a cripple, and she can't bear any one to lift her but him, because he's so gentle. And I've seen a young doctor in our village doing up a baby that was burnt nearly to death, as if _his_ fingers were fairy's, and afterwards I heard that he'd been the bravest of the brave in some awful battles in Burmah, or somewhere like that.

Indeed, he got so wounded with cutting in to carry out the men as they dropped--it was what they call a skirmish, I think, not a proper battle where they have ambulances and carrying people and everything ready, I suppose--that he's had to leave off being a soldier-doctor for good.

And now that the girls know it can't be for long, except in holidays, that I can look after mums, they're very good about letting me be with her as much as I can. And I've got them into pretty good ways. I don't think she'll miss me so _very_ much when I go.

Well, I settled the breakfast tray with Rowley, and nothing was forgotten. I let Rowley carry it up, because I knew it was safer for her to do it, and there's no sense in bragging you're bigger than you are, and can carry things that need long arms when you know you can't. But I walked beside her, opening the doors and watching that the things didn't slide about; that's how I always do. And then when the tray was safe on the bed, and I had arranged the 'courses,' first the roll and b.u.t.ter and ham and egg--I cracked the top of the egg and got it ready--and then the m.u.f.fin and marmalade, my nice time began. I squatted at the foot of the bed, near enough to reach mums anything she wanted, and then we talked.

We talk of lots of things when we're alone like that. Mums tells me of anything that's on her mind, and I comfort her up a bit. Of course we talked about the unlucky brooch, and about Anne, and how easily she and Serry might have been run over, or something like that.

'Yes, indeed,' said mums, 'I often think we're not half thankful enough for the misfortunes that _don't_ happen.'

Just then there came a knock at the door.

'Bother!' thought I. I don't think I _said_ it, for mums thinks it's such an ugly word.

It was Rowley again.

'Your letters, ma'am,' she said. 'They were forgotten when I brought up the tray.'

There were only three. Two were nothing particular--accounts or something. But the third was in a strange handwriting, and mums opened it quickly.

'It's from Lady Nearn,' she said. 'I think it was rather me to write to her. It's very kind of her, but----'

She began reading it, and her face got very grave.

'Do leave it till you've finished your breakfast, mums,' I said. 'You've not even finished the first course.'

But she scarcely listened to me.

'Oh, Jack!' she said, 'I'm afraid we haven't got to the end of the troubles caused by poor gran's diamonds yet. Oh dear, I shall be so uneasy for some days to come!'

I couldn't make out what she meant, and when she saw my puzzled face she went on to explain. Lady Nearn's letter was very kind, but she thought it right to tell mother that Anne and Serena had run into some risk by coming to her house the night before, for it was quite decided that three of her children had got whooping-cough. Not the two they had seen; at least she still _hoped_ they--the twins--wouldn't get it, for they were very delicate, and they had been separated from the others. But still there was no telling how infection might be caught, and she advised mother to be prepared for her little girls having perhaps got the illness.

Mums did look worried.

'It's a most tiresome and trying thing,' she said; 'and neither Hebe nor Maud is very strong. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you, Jack. You must be sure not to speak of it to any of them.'

I promised, of course. And then poor mums, instead of having a nice rest, declared she must get up at once, and go off to catch the doctor before he went out. Wasn't it too bad? She wanted to know what to do--whether it was any good trying to separate Anne and Serry from the rest of us, and how soon it would show, and a lot of things like that.

For mother was an only child herself, and she always says she isn't at all experienced about children. She's had to learn everything by us, you see.

Well, she did catch the doctor, and came back looking rather jollier.

He had comforted her up. There were ten chances to one against the girls having got it, he said; and as for separating them, now they had been with us all, it would be nonsense.

Ah, well! doctors don't know everything. _I'd_ have separated them fast enough, I know; and it would have been a good punishment for Anne and Serena to have been shut up for a day or two; perhaps it would have made them think twice before doing some wild, silly thing again.

So mums and I kept our own counsel. She told father, of course, but no one else, not even nurse--it would only have made her nervous. We sent round once or twice to ask how the little Nearns were--mums wrote notes, I think, as she didn't want the servants chattering. And we were very sorry to hear that the poor twins had got it after all, and rather badly.