CHAPTER XII.

THE SECRET CUPBOARD.

ELL,' said Aunt Gommie,

"Once upon a time, a great many years ago, in the time of the civil wars, there lived in the Great Stowe an old gentleman of the name of Beverley. He was a very venerable-looking old man, with silvery hair and many wrinkles on his brow. He had seen a great deal of trouble and sorrow. Both his sons had been slain in the wars, fighting for their king; his beloved wife had died of grief not long after, and he would have prayed to follow her had it not been for his three young daughters, who had no one else to care for them in the world. These three maidens,

of whom the eldest was only just seventeen, lived at the Great Stowe with their father, and cheered his saddened life with their bright mirthful ways. Mistress Blanche, the eldest, was just like her name, pale and fair, and, like a lily, tall and slight, with wavy golden hair, which looked as if the sun were always shining on it, and deep violet eyes. She was very quiet, and moved and spoke gently, unlike the bright high-spirited Mistress Rose, who was the life of the whole party, with her gay smile and her merry laugh, and sparkling brown eyes and chattering tongue, for which last she had got the name of 'Pie,' meaning magpie, which is the most talkative of birds. Mistress Cecily, the youngest of the three, who was only nine years old, was a bright little soul, rather selfwilled, and somewhat spoilt, especially by her father, who, however, had an idea that he was very strict with his children. But Cecily's roguish ways were too much for him, and he did not always look grave when he might have done so.

"In those days the Great Stowe was even more lonely than it is now. There was only the mill and the farm buildings, and the two or three cots

in which the farming men lived, and the little old church close by. There was a great deal more wood round it, and the only road to it was a very rough narrow lane, leading to the back of the house.

"One wild stormy winter's night, about nine o'clock, the two elder maidens were sitting in the little oak parlour, busily plying their needles, while their father dozed and nodded in his highbacked arm-chair over the fire. Cecily had been sent to bed two hours before, and now bright Rose was yawning, and saying,—

"Let us put these old kirtles by for to-nighttime enough to finish them to-morrow. My eyes cannot abide the dull light of this lamp.'

"Say rather your fingers cannot abide the dull feel of the needle,' said Blanche, smiling, for she knew that her lively little sister hated work above all things.

'Nay, then, I'll not gainsay you,' returned Rose, gaily. 'Tis mighty dull, you must allow, this winter-time, doing nought but stitch, stitch, stitch, all day. I had far rather help old Joan to clean out her milk-pans, and even to milk the

H

cows, than lead such a sleepy life. I wish something would happen-something stirring. We see and hear nought here, in this lonely out-ofthe-way place.'

"Blanche sighed gently as she answered,—

"I cannot say that I feel as you do. I would rather be quiet. Each time that anything stirring has come to us of late, it has been only a thing of sorrow.'

"She was thinking of the sudden tidings brought to the Great Stowe, first of the death of one brother, then of the mortal wound of the other, and lastly, his coming home to die.

"Rose knew what she meant, and was silent. The storm howled without, the wind rattled the leaden casement, and the sleet beat upon the panes.

"'Tis a wild night!' said Blanche, presently. 'I trust there are no poor wanderers out on the moor in this storm.'

"Is that Bayard barking?' said Rose, suddenly. 'Yes; I am sure it is! and how furiously he is barking too! Something must be the matter. Oh, Blanche! I feel frightened. Papa!'

Hush! don't startle him, dear,' said Blanche, as her father opened his eyes, and said, sleepily,— "Did my little Pie speak?'

"Do you hear Bayard, papa?' asked Blanche. 'He seems very restless.'

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Yes, I do hear him,' replied her father. 'There must be somebody about the place. Call to Joan, and let her send Roger out to see.'

Roger, the serving man, was Joan's son, and a sort of jack-of-all-trades at the Great Stowe.

Rose, much excited, ran out to the kitchen, calling,

"Joan! Joan! Where's the lazy varlet, Roger? Why is not he here when he is wanted? And what can be the matter with Bayard? Thieves, no doubt, lurking about. And the door open too! Joan, how can you!'

"She stopped short in the middle of her speech, as she caught sight of a strange gentleman, standing on the threshold of the kitchen entrance from the farm-yard. He was a noble gentleman, as might be plainly seen by his countenance and his clothing, which was, however, splashed and bedabbled with mud, as if he had ridden hard. His