IN THE TOILS.

The summer at Glendower was always a gay time.  The house was usually full of guests, and as there were horses and carriages, and a yacht and a sailboat, as well as two or three rowboats, the guests had certainly all possible advantages of locomotion.

The next morning was a glorious one, and Lilias and Ermie, after breakfasting together in Lilias’s own special boudoir, put on their shady hats, and went out to walk about the grounds.  The air was so delicious, and Lilias was so sweet and bright and unselfish, that it was impossible for Ermie not to feel in the best of spirits.

She ceased to desire to be grown up, and was satisfied to run races with Lilias in the simple pink cambric frock, which suited her infinitely better than the gorgeous chiffon.

Ermengarde’s life was not without care just then, but at this moment she forgot her anxieties about Susy and Basil, and the broken miniature.  She forgot her mortification of the night before, and looked what she was, a happy child.

Lilias was talking eagerly about the plans for the day’s entertainment.  The whole party were to drive to a certain point about eight miles from Glendower.  There they were to picnic, and afterward, with the tide in their favor, would return home by water.

“And mother says I may drive my own ponies,” said Lilias.  “You haven’t seen my Shetlands yet, have you, Ermie?  Oh, they are such lovely pets, and father has given me real silver bells for their harness.”

Ermengarde was about to make a reply, when a voice was heard calling Lilias.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Ermie,” said Lilias.  “I suppose mother wants me to arrange about something.  Don’t go far away; I’ll be with you directly.”

She ran off, and Ermengarde, finding a rustic bench under a tree, sat down and looked around her.  She had scarcely done so, when she was joined by Flora St. Leger.

“I saw you alone, and I rushed out to you, my love,” said the young lady.  “I want to speak to you so badly.  Where can we go to be by ourselves?”

“But I am waiting here for Lilias,” said Ermengarde.

“Oh, never mind.  What does it matter whether Lilias finds you here when she comes back or not?  She doesn’t really want you, and I do.”

Now this was all immensely flattering, for Flora was quite grown up, and Ermengarde had already lost her silly little heart to her.

“I should like to oblige you,” she said.

“Well, do oblige me!  Let us fly down this side-walk.  There’s a shrubbery at the farther end, where we shall be quite alone.  Come, give me your hand.”

Ermengarde could not resist.  A moment later she and Flora were pacing up and down in the shrubbery.

“Ermengarde,” said Miss St. Leger eagerly, “are you going to that stupid, stupid picnic to-day?”

“Why, of course,” said Ermengarde, looking up in astonishment.

“You may call me Flora if you like, my dear love.  What a sweet, pretty pet you are!  Now that I look at you by daylight, I think it’s a perfect sin that, with a face like yours, you should have to wear short frocks.”

Ermie sighed.  Miss St. Leger’s tone was full of delicious sympathy, and when the next moment she slipped her arm round the little girl’s waist, Ermie experienced quite a thrill of delight.

“I have fallen in love with you, that’s a fact,” said Miss St. Leger; “but now, about that picnic; you don’t really want to go?”

“Oh, yes, Flora.  Lilias is going to drive me in her pony-carriage.”

“Lilias!  Let her take a child like herself.  You ought to be with the grown-ups.”

“Everyone treats me exactly as if I were a child,” said Ermengarde.  “I do think it’s a great shame, for I don’t feel in the least like one.”

“Of course you don’t, pet.  Now listen to me. I’m not going to this stupid, horrid picnic.”

“Aren’t you, Flora?”

“No, I’m going to stay at home, and I want you to stay with me.  You won’t be dull, I promise you.”

“But what excuse can I give?”

“Oh, say you’re tired, or have a headache, or something of that sort.”

“But I’m not tired, and I haven’t got a headache.”

Flora pouted.

“After all, you are only a baby,” she said.  “I made a mistake; I thought you were different.”

Ermengarde colored all over her face.

“Do you really, really want me, Flora?” she asked timidly.

“Of course I do, sweet pet; now you will oblige me, won’t you?”

“I’d certainly like to, Flora.”

“That’s a darling.  Go back to the house, and lie down on your bed and, when Lilias calls you at the last moment, say you’re tired, and you’d like to stay quiet.  Of course you are tired, you know; you look it.”

“I suppose I am a little bit,” said Ermengarde.  Her heart felt like lead.  Her gayety had deserted her, but she was in the toils of a much older and cleverer girl than herself.

She stole softly back to the house, and when Lilias found her lying on her bed, she certainly told no untruth when she said that her head ached, for both head and heart ached, and she hated herself for deceiving her sweet little friend.

The picnic people departed, quietness settled down over the house, and Ermie, who had cried with vexation at the thought of losing that delightful drive and day of pleasure, had dropped into a dull kind of dose, when a knock came to her room door, and Miss St. Leger entered.

“Now, little martyr,” she said, in a cheerful voice, “jump up, make yourself smart, put on your best toggery, forget your headache, and come downstairs with me.  We are going to have some fun on our own account, now, sweet.”

“O Flora, what are you going to do?”

“First of all, we’ll have some lunch, and afterward we’ll stroll through some woods at the back of the house, and I’ll tell you some of my adventures in London last season.  Oh, my dear, I did have a time of it!  Four entertainments often in one evening!  That’s what you’ll be going through, Ermie, in a year or two.”

“Is it?” said Ermengarde.  Her eyes did not sparkle any more.  Somehow Flora did not seem as fascinating to her as she had done an hour ago.  Lilias’s disappointed face would come back again and again to her memory.  She rose, however, and under Flora’s supervision put on the smartest of her morning frocks, and went downstairs to lunch.

When the meal had come to an end, and the servants had withdrawn, Ermie asked Flora another question.

“Are we only going to walk in the woods?” she said.  “Is that all you asked me to stay at home for!”

“All, you silly puss?  Well, no, it isn’t quite all.  We are going to have tea with some friends of mine.  We are to meet them in the woods-very nice people-you’ll be charmed with them.  We’re all going to have a gypsy tea together in the woods.”

“But, Flora, I thought you hated picnics?”

“Oh, what a little innocent goose!  I hate some kinds.  Not the kind I’m going to take you to.  Now run upstairs, and put on your hat.  It is time for us to be strolling out.”

“But, Flora-

“No more of your ’buts’-go and get ready.  Ah, my sweet child, frowns don’t become that charming little face of yours.  Now, off with you; put on your most becoming hat, and let us set forth.”

Ermengarde walked upstairs as if her feet were weighted with lead.  The uneasy feeling, which had begun to arise in her heart when Flora proposed that she should tell a lie in order to remain at home, deepened and deepened.  Ermengarde had lots of faults, but she was a little lady by birth and breeding, and it suddenly occurred to her that Flora’s flatteries were fulsome, and that Flora herself was not in what her father would call good style.  She was not at all brave enough, however, now, to withstand her companion.  She put on her white shady hat, drew gauntlet gloves over her hands, caught up her parasol, and ran downstairs.

Flora was waiting for her.  Flora’s eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed.

“Now come,” she said.  “You’ll enjoy yourself so much, Ermie, and we must be quick, for we must be back again in the house before our friends return from their picnic.”

“O Flora, are you doing anything wrong?”

Flora’s face got crimson all over.

“I was mistaken in you, Ermengarde,” she said.  “I thought you were quite a different sort of girl.  I thought you were the kind of girl I could make a friend of.  I said so to Kate last night.  I offended poor Kate.  I made her cry when I said, ’If Ermengarde Wilton was only a year or two older, she’d sympathize with me.  I never saw such sympathetic eyes in anyone’s face.’  Kate was mad with jealousy, but I only wish I had her here now, poor Kate!”

“O Flora, you know I don’t mean to be unkind.”

“Of course you don’t, love; you were only a silly little goose.  Now, come along, we have no time to lose.”

Flora took Ermengarde’s hand and the two girls soon found themselves in the magnificent woods at the back of Glendower.  These woods covered many acres of land, and were the great pride of the beautiful old place.  There were woods at Wilton Chase, but not like these, and Ermengarde stopped several times to exclaim and admire.

Oh, how Basil would have enjoyed this walk!  How easily he would have climbed those trees! how merrily he would have laughed! how gay his stories would have been!  And Basil might have been here to-day, but for Ermengarde; he might have been here, driving and riding with Lilias; enjoying the woods, and the sea, and the picnic fun.

Basil, who was the best of all boys, the best, and the most honorable, was at home in disgrace because of her.  Ermie’s heart beat heavily.  Her footsteps slackened.  She scarcely heard Flora’s gay chatter.

After walking a mile or so, the girls found themselves in the midst of a clearing in the woods.  Here some carriages and horses were drawn up, and a gay party of girls, one or two round-faced and stout matrons, and a few young men were standing together.

The girls and the young men raised a noisy shout when they saw Flora, and rushed to meet her.

“How good of you to come, Florrie!  We were half afraid you couldn’t manage it.”

“Oh, I promised last night,” said Flora hastily.  “I thought George told you.  How do you do, George?  Maisie, let me introduce to you my great friend, Miss Wilton.  Miss Wilton, Miss Burroughs.”  Then Flora tripped on in front by the side of the clumsy-looking George, and Ermie found herself standing face to face with Miss Burroughs.  She was a loud-voiced, vulgar-looking girl.

“Come along,” she said almost roughly to her little companion.  “I wonder what Flora meant by walking off in that fashion.  Well, I don’t suppose you want me to chaperon you, Miss-I forget your name.”

“Wilton,” said Ermengarde, in a haughty voice.

“Miss Wilton!  I don’t know why Flora left you on my hands in that style.  She just introduced us and rushed off-just like Florrie, so independent and selfish.  I never knew anyone so selfish.  But I have my own fun to see after.  Oh, there’s Florrie in the distance, I’ll shout after her.  Flora!  Florrie!  Flora St. Leger!”

Flora turned.

“What is it, Maisie?” she screamed back.

“What am I to do with Miss Wilton?  I’m going for a long walk with the Slater girls.  She can’t possibly go so far, and besides, we don’t want children.”

“Isn’t Fanny here?” screamed back Flora.

“Yes, and Tootsie.”

“Well, let her stay with Fanny and Tootsie for a bit.”

Flora turned and walked down the hill rapidly with her companion.  Maisie caught hold of Ermengarde’s hand, and began to run with her under the trees.

Presently she came across a stout little girl of about eleven, accompanied by a stouter little boy who might be a year older.

“Fanny,” said Maisie, “this child’s name is Wilton.  She’ll stay and play with you and Tootsie for a bit.  Now be good children, all of you.  Ta-ta!  I’ll be back in time for tea.”

Maisie vanished round a corner, and Ermengarde found herself alone with Fanny and Tootsie.