he forgot that Margaret was standing
beside her with sympathising face.

'Dear Frances,' she said, 'does it remind you of something sad? Has it
to do with when you went into mourning?'

'Yes,' said Frances, 'it was soon after last Christmas that granny--our
grandmother that we lived with--got ill and died, you know, Margaret.
It's for her we are still in mourning.'

'And you were very fond of her, of course?' said Margaret.

'Very, _very_,' said Frances.

Then she almost seemed anxious to change the subject: she was afraid of
beginning to cry, which 'before all the girls' would have certainly been
ill-timed. And her glance fell on the card in her hand.

'Robin Redbreast,' she said consideringly. 'Margaret, have you ever
passed that lovely old house, down the lane on the Crickthorne Road,
that's called "Robin Redbreast?" The bird on the card reminded me of it
just now.'

'Oh yes,' said Margaret rather eagerly. 'I know it quite well. Once or
twice Bessie and I have stood at the gate and looked in. Isn't it a
delicious quaint old place?'

'It's perfectly beautiful,' said Frances. 'You can't think what it looks
like from the inside.'

'Have you ever been inside?' questioned Margaret, evidently intensely
interested. 'Do tell me about it.'

Frances glanced round, as if to make sure that no one was within
hearing, partly perhaps from a feeling that Jacinth would not have liked
her to go 'chattering' about their yesterday's adventure, partly from a
childish love of importance and mystery.

'Is it anything you shouldn't tell me, perhaps?' said Margaret, with
quick delicacy. 'Don't mind my having asked you; it wasn't--it wasn't
exactly curiosity, Frances.'

And Frances, glancing at her friend, saw that her face had reddened all
over. Margaret was not a pretty child, but she was very sweet-looking,
with honest gray eyes and smooth brown hair. Her features were good, but
the cheeks were less round than one likes to see at her age; there was a
rather wistful expression about the whole face, almost suggesting
premature cares and anxiety.

'Oh no, dear,' said Frances reassuringly. 'It's not that. It _was_
rather queer, and you see we weren't quite sure at first how Aunt Alison
was going to take it. And Jacinth is always rather down upon me for
talking too much. But I know I may tell _you_, for it's quite fixed that
you and Bessie are to be my best friends: it's the day-scholars that
Aunt Alison doesn't want me to talk