ll you what's the first thing to do,' she said, 'and that's to
get this child out of the cold,' and she opened a door a little farther
back in the hall, and got us all in, the maid following.

It was a very nice, rather small dining-room; a bright fire was burning,
and the girl turned on an electric lamp over the table. There were
pretty ferns and things on it, ready for dinner, just like mamma has
them at home.

'Now,' she began again, but there seemed nothing but interruptions, for
just at that moment another door was heard to open, and as the one of
the room where we were was not shut, we could hear some one calling--

'Beryl, Beryl, is there anything the matter? Has your aunt come?'

It was a man's voice--quite a kind one, but rather fussy.

'Wait a moment or two, I'll be back directly,' said the girl, and as she
ran out of the room we heard her calling, 'I'm coming, daddy.'

The parlour-maid drew back nearer the door, not seeming sure if she
should leave us alone or not, and _we_ drew a little nearer the fire. So
that we could talk without her hearing us.

[Illustration: 'NOW,' SHE BEGAN . . . DRAWING MARGARET TO HER, 'TELL ME
ALL ABOUT IT.'--p. 159.]

'Isn't she a kind lady?' said Margaret, glancing up at me. 'I think she
looks very kind. You don't think she'll send me back to the witch, do
you, Giles?'

'Bother the witch,' I was on the point of saying, for I would have given
anything by this time to be back in our homes again, witch or no witch.
But I thought better of it. It wouldn't have been kind, with Margaret
looking up at me, with tears in her big dark eyes, so white and anxious.

'I shouldn't think so,' I replied. 'She must be Mrs. Wylie's niece, and
we'll go on to Mrs. Wylie, and she will tell us what to do.'

The girl--perhaps I'd better call her 'Beryl' now. We always do, though
she is no longer Beryl Wylie. Beryl was back almost at once.

'Now,' she began again, sitting down in an arm-chair by the fire, and
drawing Margaret to her, 'tell me all about it. In the first place, who
are you? What are your names?'

'Lesley,' I said. 'At least _ours_ is,' and I touched Peterkin. 'I'm
Giles and he's Peterkin. We know Mrs. Wylie, and we live on the Marine
Parade.'

Beryl nodded.

'Yes,' she said, 'I've heard of you. And,' she touched Margaret gently,
'this small maiden? What is her name--she is not your sister?'

'No,' I replied. 'She is Margaret----' I stopped short. For the first
time it st