often away.Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own,only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character, and Annie's nurse wentaway, and she look her daily walks by her mother's side and slept in alittle cot in her mother's room. Then came a very, very sad day, whenher mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall andhandsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart,and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, aboveall things, to take care of mother. Then her father had gone away; andthough Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her motherwent into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try hertear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used tonotice that she coughed a good deal as she worked. Then there wasanother move, and this time Mrs Forest and her little daughter foundthemselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy and foodeven was scarce. At last there was a change. One day a lady came intothe dingy little room, and all of a sudden it seemed as if the sun hadcome out again. This lady brought comforts with her--toys and books forthe child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother. At last Annie'smother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this goodfriend who had made her mother's dying hours easy.
"Annie, Annie," said the dying mother, "I owe everything to Mrs Willis;we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to menow and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you.Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?"
"Yes, mother," said little Annie, gazing full into her mother's facewith her sweet bright eyes, "I'll--I'll love her, mother; I'll give herlots and lots of love."
Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almostworshipped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and whohad so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her shortexistence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was anaffectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was asimpossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as itwould be for a flower to keep its head determinedly turned from the sun.In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; herlittle face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughablecharacter.
Her mother died--her father was still away, but Annie retained her braveand cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs Willis lovedher--she bestowed upon her amongst all her girls the tenderest glances,the most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and evenscolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worstscrapes made them smile. Annie's companions adored her; the littlechildren would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants inthe school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit tohold a candle to Miss Forest.
During the last half-year, however, things had been different.Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright younggirl; she was no longer a universal favourite--some of the girls evenopenly expressed their dislike of her.
All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs Willisjoined in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to hereyes, nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie's spiritsutterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, thisuniversal chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally.
She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wonderingvaguely if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling ofmore or less indifference to everything and everyone, when she wassuddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by avery eager little exclamation--
"Me tumming--me tumming, Annie!" and then Nan raised her charming faceand placed her cool baby hand in Annie's.
There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in thelook of love and pleasure which lit up the small face.
"Me yiding from naughty nurse--me 'tay with 'oo, Annie--me love 'oo,Annie."
Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms.
"Why ky?" said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie'seyes; "dere, poor ickle Annie--me love 'oo--me buy 'oo a new doll."
"Dearest little darling," said Annie in a voice of almost passionatepain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch withall little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowedlaughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. "Come, Nan,"she said, "you and I will have such a race."
She placed the child on her shoulder, clasped the little hands securelyround her neck, and ran to the sound of Nan's shouts down the shadywalk.
At the farther end Nan suddenly tightened her clasp, drew herself up,ceased to laugh, and said with some fright in her voice--
"Who dat?"
Annie, too, stood still with a sudden start, for the gypsy woman, MotherRachel, was standing directly in their path.
"Go 'way, naughty woman," said Nan, shaking her small hand imperiously.
The gypsy dropped a low curtsey, and spoke in a slightly mocking tone.
"A pretty little dear," she said. "Yes, truly now, a pretty littlewinsome dear; and oh, what shoes! and little open-work socks! and Idon't doubt real lace trimming on all her little garments--I don't doubtit a bit."
"Go 'way--me don't like 'oo," said Nan. "Let's wun back--gee, gee," shesaid, addressing Annie, whom she had constituted into a horse for thetime being.
"Yes, Nan; in one minute," said Annie. "Please, Mother Rachel, what areyou doing here?"
"Only waiting to see you, pretty Missie," replied the tall gypsy. "Youare the dear little lady who crossed my hand with silver that night inthe wood. Eh, but it was a bonny night, with a bonny bright moon, andnone of the dear little ladies meant any harm--no, no. Mother Rachelknows that."
"Look here," said Annie, "I'm not going to be afraid of you. I have nomore silver to give you. If you like, you may go up to the house andtell what you have seen. I am very unhappy, and whether you tell or notcan make very little difference to me now. Good-night; I am not theleast afraid of you--you can do just as you please about telling MrsWillis."
"Eh, my dear?" said the gypsy; "do you think I'd work you any harm--you,and the seven other dear little ladies? No, not for the world, mydear--not for the world. You don't know Mother Rachel when you thinkshe'd be that mean."
"Well, don't come here again," said Annie. "Good-night."
She turned on her heel, and Nan shouted back--
"Go 'way, naughty woman--Nan don't love 'oo, 'tall, 'tall."
The gypsy stood still for a moment with a frown knitting her brows; thenshe slowly turned, and, creeping on all-fours through the underwood,climbed the hedge into the field beyond.
"Oh, no," she laughed, after a moment; "the little Missy thinks sheain't afraid of me; but she be. Trust Mother Rachel for knowing thatmuch. I make no doubt," she added after a pause, "that the little one'sclothes are trimmed with real lace. Well, little Missie Annie Forest, Ican see with half an eye that you set store by that baby-girl. You hadbetter not cross Mother Rachel's whims, or she can punish you in a wayyou don't think of."
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.
HOW MOSES MOORE KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT.
Susan Drummond got back to Lavender House without apparent discovery.She was certainly late when she took her place in the class-room for hernext day's preparation; but, beyond a very sharp reprimand fromMademoiselle, no notice was taken of this fact. She managed to whisperto Nora and Phyllis that the basket would be moved by the first dawn thenext morning, and the little girls went to bed happier in consequence.Nothing ever could disturb Susan's slumbers, and that night shecertainly slept without rocking. As she was getting into bed sheventured to tell Annie how successfully she had manoeuvred; but Anniereceived her news with the most absolute indifference, looking at herfor a moment with a queer smile, and then saying--
"My own wish is that this should be found out. As a matter of course, Isha'n't betray you, girls; but as things
now stand I am anxious thatMrs Willis should know the very worst of me."
After a remark which Susan considered so simply idiotic, there was, ofcourse, no further conversation between the two girls.
Moses Moore had certainly promised Betty to rise soon after dawn on thefollowing morning and go to Lavender House to carry off the basket fromunder the laurel-tree. Moses, a remarkably indolent lad, had beenstimulated by the thought of the delicious cherries which would be hisas soon as he brought the basket to Betty. He had cleverly stipulatedthat a quart--not a pint--of cherries was to be his reward, and helooked forward with