en--Esther, the eldest, Angela, and
Poppy, the baby of them all. Penelope was the second, aged nearly twelve.

"Four girls! isn't it dreadful?" Esther sometimes sighed. "But there, I
suppose it is better than some of us being boys, for now we _can_ hand our
clothes down from one to the other, and if we couldn't I am afraid the
younger ones would often have to go without."

In the thirteen short years of her life poor Esther had grown to know all
the shifts and economies and discomforts of poverty only too well.
She had seen, so to speak, the rise and fall of her family, and at last
had become almost the only prop which kept it from falling altogether.
She could remember when the house was always full of company and life and
laughter, when her mother always wore pretty frocks and beautiful jewels,
and drove everywhere in their own carriage. She could remember gay
dinner-parties, when she used to creep out of bed and sit on the stairs to
listen to the singing in the drawing-room.

The scent of certain flowers still brought back the memory of those days,
when she and Penelope used to go down in their prettiest frocks to
dessert, and were given dainty sweets and fruits, and were made much of.

Then there came a dark time when, although she was so young, she felt
vaguely that there was trouble overshadowing them, and saw it, too,
reflected in her father's face; and the darkest day of all was when
Grandpa Carroll came, and with scarcely a word or a glance for the
children, went at once to the library with her father, and departed again
that same night, leaving gloom and misery behind him. All the rest of the
day, she remembered, her father remained shut up in the library, and her
mother locked herself, weeping, in her bedroom; and Esther and Penelope
went to bed that night without any good-night kiss from either; and worse
than that, Esther heard nurse and Jane, the housemaid, talking in low,
mysterious tones, and knew that they were talking of her parents' and
their affairs; and, as any child would, bitterly resented it.

"Why don't you go downstairs, Jane?" she said at last, when she could
endure it no longer; "you know mother doesn't allow gossiping in the
nursery."

But she had only a shaking from nurse, and a rude answer from Jane, which
made her anger burn hotter than ever. She lay awake a long time that
night, trying to make sense of what they had been saying, but it was not
until years later that she really