Miss Tredgold was dreadfully puzzled to know what to make of the girls. The time was autumn now; all pretense¹ of summer had disappeared. Autumn had arrived and was very windy and wet, and the girls could no longer walk in twos and twos on the pretty lawn. They had to keep to the walks, and even these walks were drenched², as day after day deluges³ of rain fell from the heavens. The Forest, too, was sodden⁴ with the fallen leaves, and even the ponies⁵ slipped as they cantered down the glades⁶. Altogether 180it was a most chilling, disappointing autumn, winter setting in, so to speak, all at once. Verena said she never remembered such an early season of wintry winds and sobbing⁷ skies. The flowers disappeared, several of the Forest trees were rooted up in consequence of the terrible gales⁸, and Miss Tredgold said it was scarcely safe for the children to walk there.  
“The best cure for weather of this sort,” she said to herself, “is to give the young people plenty to do indoors.”
 
Accordingly she reorganized lessons in a very brisk and up-to-date fashion. She arranged that a good music-master was to come twice a week from Southampton. Mistresses for languages were also to arrive from the same place. A pretty little pony-cart which she bought for the purpose conveyed these good people to and from Lyndhurst Road station. Besides this, she asked one or two visitors to come and stay in the house, and tried to plan as comfortable and nice a winter as she could. Verena helped her, and the younger girls were pleased and interested; and Pen did what she was told, dashing about here and there, and making suggestions, and trying to make herself as useful as she could.
 
“The child is improved,” said Miss Tredgold to Verena. “She is quite obliging and unselfish.”
 
Verena said nothing.
 
“What do you think of my new plans, Verena?” said her aunt. “Out-of-door life until the frost comes is more or less at a standstill. Beyond the mere⁹ walking for health, we do not care to go out of doors in this wet and sloppy¹⁰ weather. But the house is large. I mean always to have one or two friends here, sometimes girls to please you other girls, sometimes older people to interest me. I should much like to have one or two savants down to talk over their special studies with your father; but that can doubtless be arranged by-and-by. I want us to have cheerful winter evenings—evenings for reading, evenings for music. I want you children to learn at least the rudiments¹¹ of good acting¹², and I mean to have two or three plays enacted¹³ here during the winter. In short, if you will all help me, we can have a splendid time.”
 
“Oh, I will help you,” said Verena. “But,” she added, “I have no talent for acting; it is Paulie who can act so well.”
 
“I wish your sister would take an interest in things, Verena. She is quite well in body, but she is certainly not what she was before her accident.”
 
“I don’t understand Pauline,” said Verena, shaking her head.
 
“Nor do I understand her. Once or twice I thought I would get a good doctor to see her, but I have now nearly resolved to leave it to time to restore her.”181
 
“But the other girls—can you understand the other girls, Aunt Sophy?” asked Verena.
 
“Understand them, my dear? What do you mean?”
 
“Oh, I don’t mean the younger ones—Adelaide and Lucy and the others. I mean Briar and Patty. They are not a bit what they were.”
 
“Now that you remark it, I have noticed that they are very grave; but they always do their lessons well, and I have nothing to complain of with regard to their conduct.”
 
“Nor have you anything to complain of with regard to Paulie’s conduct,” said Verena. “It isn’t that.”
 
“Then what is it, my dear?”
 
“It is that they are not natural. There is something on their minds. I am certain of it.”
 
“Verena,” said her aunt gently, “I wonder if I might confide¹⁴ in you.”
 
Verena started back; a distressed¹⁵ look came over her face.
 
“If it happens to be anything against Paulie, perhaps I had better not hear,” she said.
 
“I do not know if it is for her or against her. I am as much in the dark as you. I have not spoken of it yet to any one else, but I should like to mention it to you. It seems to me that light ought to be thrown on some rather peculiar¹⁷ circumstances or your sister will never get back her old brightness and gaiety of heart.”
 
“Then if you think so, please tell me, Aunt Sophy,” said Verena.
 
She got up as she spoke¹⁶ and shut the door. She was a very bright and pretty-looking girl, but her face sometimes wore too old a look for her age. Her aunt looked at her now with a mingling¹⁸ of affection and compassion¹⁹.
 
“Come,” she said, “sit on this sofa, darling. We can understand each other better when we are close together. You know how much I love you, Renny.”
 
“There never, never was a better aunt,” said the girl.
 
“I am not that. But I do love you. Now, dear, I will tell you. You remember when first I came?”
 
“Oh, don’t I? And how angry we were!”
 
“Poor children! I don’t wonder. But don’t you think, Verena, I was a very brave woman to put myself into such a hornet’s nest?”
 
“Indeed you were wonderful. It was your bravery that first attracted me. Then I saw how good you were, and how kindly²⁰ you meant, and everything else became easy.”
 
“But was it equally easy for Pauline?”
 
“I—I don’t know. I am sure I do know, however, that now she loves you very much.”
 
“Ah! now,” said Miss Tredgold. “But what about the early time?”
 
“I don’t quite know.”182
 
“Verena, if I am to be frank with you, you must be frank with me.”
 
“I think perhaps she was not won round to you quite as easily as I was.”
 
“You are right, my dear. It was harder to win her; but she is worth winning. I shall not rest until I bring her round altogether to my side. Now, little girl, listen. You know what a very odd child we are all forced to consider your sister Pen?”
 
“I should think so, indeed.” Verena laughed.
 
“Well, your sister found out one day, not very long after I came, that I had lost a thimble.”
 
“Your beautiful gold thimble? Of course we all knew about that,” said Verena. “We were all interested, and we all tried to find it.”
 
“I thought so. I knew that Pen in particular searched for it with considerable pains, and I offered her a small prize if she found it.”
 
Verena laughed.
 
“Poor Pen!” she said. “She nearly broke her back one day searching for it. Oh, Aunt Sophy! I hope you will learn to do without it, for I am greatly afraid that it will not be found now.”
 
“And yet, Verena,” said Miss Tredgold—and she laid her hand, which slightly shook, on the girl’s arm—“I could tell you of a certain person in this house to whom a certain dress belongs, and unless I am much mistaken, in the pocket of that dress reposes²¹ the thimble with its sapphire²² base, its golden body, and its rim²³ of pale-blue turquoise²⁴.”
 
“Aunt Sophy! What do you mean?”
 
Verena’s eyes were wide open, and a sort of terror filled them.
 
“Don’t start, dear. That person is your sister Pauline.”
 
“Oh! Pauline! Impossible! Impossible!” cried Verena.
 
“It is true, nevertheless. Do you remember that day when she was nearly drowned?”
 
“Can I forget it?”
 
“The next morning I was in her room, and the servant brought in the dark-blue serge dress she wore, which had been submerged so long in the salt water. It had been dried, and she was bringing it back. The girl held in her hand the thimble—the thimble of gold and sapphire and turquoise. She held the thimble in the palm of her hand, and said, ‘I found it in the pocket of the young lady’s dress. It is injured, but the jeweller can put it right again.’ You can imagine my feelings. For a time I was motionless, holding the thimble in my hand. Then I resolved to put it back where it had been found. I have heard nothing of it since from any one. I don’t suppose Pauline has worn that skirt again; the thimble is doubtless there.”183
 
“Oh, may I run and look? May I?”
 
“No, no; leave it in its hiding-place. Do you think the thimble matters to me? What does matter is this—that Pauline should come and tell me, simply and quietly, the truth.”
 
“She will. She must. I feel as if I were in a dream. I can scarcely believe this can be true.”
 
“Alas! my dear, it is. And there is another thing. I know what little trinkets you each possess, for you showed them to me when first I came. Have you any reason to believe, Verena, that Pauline kept one trinket back from my knowledge?”
 
“Oh, no, Aunt Sophy; of course she did not. Pauline has fewer trinkets than any of us, and she is fond of them. She is not particularly fond of gay clothes, but she always did like shiny, ornamenty things.”
 
“When she was ill I saw round her neck a narrow gold chain, to which a little heart-shaped locket was attached. Do you know of such a locket, of such a chain?”
 
“No.”
 
Miss Tredgold rose to her feet.
 
“Verena,” she said, “things must come to a climax²⁵. Pauline must be forced to tell. For her own sake, and for the sake of others, we must find out what is at the back of things. Until we do the air will not be cleared. I had an idea of taking you to London for this winter, but I shall not do so this side of Christmas at any rate. I want us all to have a good time, a bright time, a happy time. We cannot until this mystery is explained. I am certain, too, that Pen knows more than she will say. She always was a curious, inquisitive²⁶ child. Now, until the time of the accident Pen was always pursuing me and giving me hints that she had something to confide. I could not, of course, allow the little girl to tell tales, and I always shut her up. But from the time of the accident she has altered. She is now a child on the defensive²⁷. She watches Pauline as if she were guarding her against something. I am not unobservant, and I cannot help seeing. From what you tell me, your sisters Briar and Patty are also implicated²⁸. My dear Verena, we must take steps.”
 
“Yes,” said Verena. “But what steps?”
 
“Let me think. It has relieved my mind to tell you even this much. You will keep your own counsel. I will talk to you again to-morrow morning.”
 
Verena felt very uncomfortable. Of all the Dales she was the most open, in some ways the most innocent. She thought well of all the world. She adored her sisters and her father, and now also her aunt, Miss Tredgold. She was the sort of girl who would walk through life without a great deal of sorrow or a great deal of perplexity. The right path would attract her; the wrong would always be 184repellent to her. Temptation, therefore, would not come in a severe guise²⁹ to Verena Dale. She was guarded against it by the sweetness and purity and innocence³⁰ of her nature. But now for the first time it seemed to the young girl that the outlook was dark. Her aunt’s words absolutely bewildered her. Her aunt suspected Pauline, Pen, Briar, and Patty of concealing³¹ something. But what had they to conceal³²? It is true that when Aunt Sophia first arrived they had felt a certain repugnance³³ to her society, a desire to keep out of her way, and a longing³⁴ for the old wild, careless, slovenly³⁵ days. But surely long ere this such foolish ideas had died a natural death. They all loved Aunt Sophia now; what could they have to conceal?
 
“I dare not talk about it to the younger girls. I don’t want to get into Pen’s confidence. Pen, of all the children, suits me least. The peo............