who were
exceedingly jolly and bright and lively, were a fresh source of
delight to all those whom they happened to meet. Their names were
Susan and Mary Heathfield. They were older than the Tristrams and the
Cardews, and had, in fact, just left school. Their last year of
school-life had been spent in Paris; they were highly educated, and
had an enviable proficiency in the French tongue.

Mr. and Mrs. Heathfield, the parents of these girls, were also guests
at the Manor, so that the picnic on this last day of Maggie's visit to
the rectory was quite a large one. They drove nearly twenty miles to a
beautiful place not far from Warwick. There the usual picnic
arrangements were made with great satisfaction; dinner was eaten
out-of-doors, and presently there was to be a gipsy-tea. This all the
girls looked forward to, and Andrew and Jack were wild with delight
over the prospect of making the kettle boil. This particular task was
given to them, and very proud they were of the trust reposed in them.

But now, dinner being over, the older people took shelter from the
fierce rays of the sun under the wide-spreading trees, and the young
people moved about in groups or in couples. Merry Cardew found herself
alone with Maggie Howland. Without intending to do so, she had
slightly, very slightly, avoided Maggie during the last day or two;
but Maggie now seized her arm and drew her down a shady glade.

"Come with me, Merry," she said; "I have a lot I want to say to you."

Merry looked at her. "Of course I will come with you, Maggie," she
answered.

"I want just to get quite away from the others," continued Maggie,
"for we shall not meet again until we meet in the autumn at Aylmer
House. You don't know, perhaps--do you, Merry--that you owe the great
joy of coming to that lovely school to me?"

"To you!" said Merry in the utmost amazement.

"Yes," replied Maggie in her calmest tone, "to me."

"Oh, dear Maggie!" replied Merry, "you surely must be mistaken."

"I don't intend to explain myself," said Maggie; "I simply state what
is a fact. You owe your school-life to me. It was I who inserted the
thin end of the wedge beneath your father's fixed resolution that you
were to be educated at home. It was I, in short, who acted the part of
the fairy princess and who pulled those silken reins which brought
about the desire of your heart."

"I don't understand you, Maggie," said Merry in a distressful tone;
"but I suppose," she added