That night, which was long remembered in the annals of the Maybright family as one of the dreariest and most terrible they had ever passed through, came to an end at last. With the early dawn Polly was brought home, and about the same time Nurse and Maggie reappeared with baby on the scene.

Flower, after she had briefly told her tidings, went straight up to her own room, where she locked the door, and remained deaf to all entreaties on David’s part that he might come in and console her.

“She’s always dreadful after she has had a real bad passion,” he explained to Fly, who was following him about like a little ghost. “I wish she would let me in. She spends herself so when she is in a passion that she is quite weak afterwards. She ought to have a cup of tea; I know she ought.”

But it was in vain that David knocked, and that little Fly herself, even though she felt that she hated Flower, brought the tea. There was no sound at the other side of the locked door, and after a time the anxious watchers went away.

At that moment, however, had anybody been outside, they might have seen pressed against the window-pane in that same room a pale but eager face. Had they looked, too, they might have wondered at the hard lines round the young, finely-cut lips, and yet the eager, pleading watching in the eyes.

There was a stir in the distance—the far-off sound of wheels. Flower started to her feet, slipped the bolt of her door, ran downstairs, and was off and away to meet the covered carriage which was bringing baby home.

She called to George, who was driving it, to stop. She got in, and seated herself beside Nurse and baby.

“How is she? Will she live?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“God grant it!” replied the Nurse. “What are you doing, Miss Flower? No, you shan’t touch her.”

“I must! Give her to me this moment. There is Dr. Maybright. Give me baby this moment. I must, I will, have her!”

She almost snatched the little creature out of Nurse’s astonished arms, and as the carriage drew up at the entrance steps sprang out, and put the baby into Dr. Maybright’s arms.

“There!” she said; “I took her away, but I give her back. I was in a passion and angry when I took her away; now I repent, and am sorry, and I give her back to you? Don’t you see, I can’t do more than give her back to you? That is our way out in Victoria. Don’t you slow English people understand? I was angry; now I am sorry. Why do you all[Pg 127] stand round and stare at me like that? Can anybody be more than sorry, or do more than give back what they took?”

“It is sometimes impossible to give back what we took away, Flower,” replied the Doctor, very gravely.

He was standing in the midst of his children; his face was white; his eyes had a strained look in them; the strong hands with which he clasped little Pearl trembled. He did not look again at Flower, who shrank away as if she had received a blow, and crept upstairs.

For the rest of the day she was lost sight of; there was a great deal of commotion and excitement. Polly, when she was brought home, was sufficiently ill and suffering to require the presence of a doctor; little Pearl showed symptoms of cold, and for her, too, a physician prescribed.

Why not Dr. Maybright? The children were not accustomed to strange faces and unfamiliar voices when they were ill or in pain. Polly had a curious feeling when the new doctor came to see her; he prescribed and went away. Polly wondered if the world was coming to an end; she was in greater pain than she had ever endured in her life, and yet she felt quiet and peaceful. Had she gone up a step or two of the mountain she so longed to climb? Did she hear the words of her mother’s favorite song, and was a Guide—the Guide—holding her childish hand?

The hour of the long day passed somehow.

If there was calm in Polly’s room, and despair more or less in poor Flower’s, the rest of the house was kept in a state of constant excitement. The same doctor came back again; doors were shut and opened quickly; people whispered in the corridors. As the hours flew on, no one thought of Flower in her enforced captivity, and even Polly, but for Maggie’s ceaseless devotion, might have fared badly.

All day Flower Dalrymple remained in her room. She was forgotten at meal-times. Had David been at home, this would not have been the case; but Helen had sent David and her own little brothers to spend the day at Mrs. Jones’s farm. Even the wildest spirits can be tamed and brought to submission by the wonderful power of hunger, and so it came to pass that in the evening a disheveled-looking girl opened the door of her pretty room over the porch, and slipped along the passages and downstairs. Flower went straight to the dining-room; she intended to provide herself with bread and any other food she could find, then to return to her solitary musings. She thought herself extremely neglected, and the repentance and sense of shame which she had more or less experienced in the morning and the memory of Dr. Maybright’s words and the look in has grave eyes had faded under a feeling of being unloved, forsaken, forgotten. Even David had never come near her—David, who lived for her. Was she not his queen as well as sister? Was he not her dutiful subject as well as her little brother?

All the long day that Flower had spent in solitude her[Pg 128] thoughts grew more and more bitter, and only hunger made her now forsake her room. She went into the dining-room; it was a long, low room, almost entirely lined with oak. There was a white cloth on the long center table, in the middle of which a lamp burnt dimly; the French windows were open; the blinds were not drawn down. As Flower opened the door, a strong cold breeze caused the lamp to flare up and smoke, the curtains to shake, and a child to move in a restless, fretful fashion on her chair. The child was Firefly; her eyes were so swollen with crying that they were almost invisible under their heavy red lids; her hair was tossed; the rest of her little thin face was ghastly pale.

“Is that you, Flower?” she exclaimed. “Are you going to stay here? If you are, I’ll go away.”

“What do you mean?” said Flower. “You go away? You can go or stay, just as you please. I have come here because I want some food, and because I’ve been shamefully neglected and starved all day. Ring the bell, please, Fly. I really must order up something to eat.”

Fly rose from her chair. She had long, lanky legs and very short petticoats, and as she stood half leaning against the wall, she looked so forlorn, pathetic, and yet comical, that Flower, notwithstanding her own anger and distress, could not help bursting out laughing.

“What is the matter?” she said. “What an extraordinary little being you are! You look at me as if you were quite afraid of me. For pity’s sake, child, don’t stare at me in that grewsome fashion. Ring the bell, as I tell you, and then if you please you can leave the room.&rd............