me!" exclaimed Priscilla, trying not to look too pleased, and just
then a casement-window above their heads was thrown open, a white-capped
head was thrust out, and an excited voice called out, "Ma'am! Ma'am!"

"Well, what?" said Mrs Vallance, looking up alarmed.

"It's all come off, mum--the brown colour has--and she's got a skin as
white as a lily."

Mrs Vallance cast a glance of triumph at her husband, but forebore to
say anything, in consideration of his depressed condition; then she
rushed hurriedly upstairs to see the new wonder.

And thus began baby's life in her third home, and she brought nothing of
her own to it except her one little clog.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 2.

WENSDALE.

The village of Wensdale was snugly shut in from the rest of the world in
a narrow valley. It had a little river flowing through it, and a little
grey church standing on a hill, and a rose-covered vicarage, a
blacksmith's forge, and a post-office. Further up the valley, where the
woods began, you could see the chimneys of the White House where Squire
Chelwood lived, and about three miles further on still was Dorminster, a
good-sized market-town. But in Wensdale itself there was only a handful
of thatched cottages scattered about here and there round the vicarage.
Life was so regular and quiet there that you might almost tell the time
without looking at the clock. When you heard cling, clang, from the
blacksmith's forge, and quack, quack, from the army of ducks waddling
down to the river, it was five o'clock. Ding, dong from the
church-tower, and the tall figure of Mr Vallance climbing the hill to
read prayers--eight o'clock. So on throughout the day until evening
came, and you knew that soon after the cows had gone lowing through the
village, and the ducks had taken their way to bed in a long uneven line,
that perfect silence would follow, deep and undisturbed.

In this quiet refuge Maggie's baby grew up for seven years, under the
name of Mary Vallance. She was now nine years old. As she grew the
qualities which had shown themselves as a baby, and made Perrin call her
as "orty as a duchess," grew also, though they were kept in check by
wise and loving influences. To command seemed more natural to her than
to obey, and far more pleasant, and this often caused trouble to herself
and others. True, nothing could be more thorough than her repentance
after a fit of naughtiness, for she was a very affectionate child; but
the