nine for a whole winter and spring.

It was Edith who took Johnnie and Francie down to the pondside to play,
and let them both tumble in. True, she went bravely in herself and
rescued them, but that did not count for very much. They were terribly
wet, and if they had been drowned it would have been all her fault.

It was Edith who let Tom's chickens out for a run, and the cat came and
killed two of them; that was just before she forgot to shut the
paddock-gate, when the donkey got into mamma's flower-garden and spoilt
all the best plants.

So poor Edith went on from day to day, thankful if she could only lay
her head upon her pillow at night without being blamed for some fresh
escapade, yet thoroughly happy in the freedom of her country life, in
the enjoyment of long summer-day rambles, and endless games with the
little brothers, who thought her "the jolliest girl that ever was," and
followed her lead without scruple, sure that whatever mischief she might
get them into she would bravely shield them from the consequences.

A country doctor, with a not very lucrative practice, Dr. Harley had,
when Edith was about ten years old, sustained a severe pecuniary loss
which greatly reduced his income. It was then that the governess had to
be given up, and the twin boys who came next to Maude and Jessie were
sent to a cheaper school. These boys were leaving now, one to go to the
university, through the kindness of a distant relative, the other to
pass a few weeks with the London coach who would prepare him for a Civil
Service examination.

Jessie, a nice, clever girl, with a decided taste for music, could teach
the four younger ones very well--had done so, indeed, ever since Miss
Phipps left; but in this, as in everything, Edith was the family
problem. She could not, or would not, learn much from Jessie; she hated
the piano and needlework, and even professed not to care for books.

[Sidenote: "Would it help Papa?"]

Yet she astonished the entire family sometimes by knowing all sorts of
odd out-of-the-way facts; she could find an apt quotation from some
favourite poet for almost any occasion, and did a kind of queer
miscellaneous reading in "a hole-and-corner way," as her brother Tom
said, that almost drove the sister-governess to distraction.

And now the choice of a companion for Miss Rachel Harley, the stern,
middle-aged aunt, whom even the elder girls could scarcely remember to
have seen, had fallen upon Edith.

The