The House That Grew. Molesworth Mrs.

till now we had never dreamt of letting it. Indeed, we used to feel quite angry, which was rather silly, I daresay, if ever we heard of any offer being made for it. And now the offer that had come was a very good one; it was not only more money than had ever been proposed before, but it came from very nice sort of people, whom the agent knew were quite to be trusted in every way.

      'They will take good care of the house and of all our things,' said papa, 'and keep on any of the servants who like to stay.'

      'Shall we not have any servants then?' Dods had asked. 'Do you mean that mamma – mamma and Ida and the little ones – I don't mind for myself, I'm a boy; I'll go to sea as a common sailor if it would be any good – but do you mean, that we shall be like really poor people?' And here there came a choke in his voice that made me feel as if I could scarcely keep from crying. For I knew what he was thinking of – the idea of mamma, our pretty mamma, with her merry laugh and nice dresses, and soft, white hands, having to work and even scrub perhaps, and to give up all the things and ways she was used to – it was too dreadful!

      Papa looked sorry and went on again quietly —

      'No, no, my boy,' he said; 'don't exaggerate it. Of course mamma and you all must have every comfort possible. One servant, anyway – Hoskins is sure to stay, and a younger one as well, I hope. And there must be no thought of your going to sea, George, or going anywhere, till I come back again. I look to you to take care of them all – that is why I am explaining more to you and Ida than many people would to such young ones. But I know you are both very sensible for your age. You see, we are sure of the new rent, thanks to this Mr. Trevor's offer – and even that would prevent us from being in a desperate position. And, of course, the usual money will go on coming in from the property, though the most of it must go in keeping things in order, in case – ' but here papa broke off.

      'I know what you were going to say, papa,' said poor Dods, growing scarlet; he was certainly very quick-witted, – "in case we have to sell Eastercove!" Oh, papa! anything but that! I'll work – I'll do anything to make money, so long as we don't have to do that. Our old, old home!'

      He could not say any more, and turned away his head.

      'It has not come to that yet, my boy,' said papa, after a moment or two's silence. 'Let us keep up heart in the meantime, and hope for the best.'

      Then he went on to tell us some of the plans he and mamma had already begun to make – about our going to live in some little house at Kirke, where we should not feel so strange as farther away, though there were objections to this too, – anything at all nice in the shape of even a tiny house there would be dear, as the neighbourhood was much sought after by visitors in winter as well as in summer. For it was considered so very healthy for delicate people; the air was always clear and dry, and the scent of the pine woods so strengthening. Papa, however, was doing his best; he and mamma were going there that very afternoon, 'To spy the land,' papa said, trying to speak cheerily.

      So now I come back to where I began my explanation as to what the 'it' was, that Geordie and I agreed was so dreadful.

      We were walking on slowly to the hut, and just as I had replied, 'I think it is,' we came in sight of it, and something – I don't know what – made us both stop and look at this favourite spot of ours. It was so pretty to-day – perhaps that was it. A sudden clearing brought us out of the wood, through which we had been following a well-worn, narrow path, and the bright, soft light of the early afternoon – of an April afternoon – was falling on the quaint little place. It was more like two or three huts than one, and indeed it really did consist of three or four rooms, which we children had been allowed to consider our own quarters, and to decorate and improve according to our fancy and taste. To begin with, it had been a bathing-house, of two rooms, partly of stone, partly of wood, standing on a little plateau, just at the edge of the pine trees, and well above the sea, so that even in stormy weather the water could not possibly reach it; besides which, I must say that stormy weather in the shape of high tides or great waves never did show itself in this cove. Often and often we had sat there, listening to the boom and crash at the foot of the cliffs, round at the other side, as snug and peaceful as if we had been miles inland.

      And the sands that sloped down from our hut were just perfection, both as to prettiness and niceness for bathing. They shone to-day like gold and silver mixed in the sunshine; and the hut itself, though queerly shaped, looked pretty too. We had managed, in spite of the sandy soil, to get some hardy creepers to grow over it on the inland side, and we had sunk some old tubs filled with good soil in front of the porch – for there was a porch – in which flourished some nice, bushy evergreens, and there was even a tiny terrace with long flower-boxes, where, for six months of the year at least, geraniums and fuchsias, and for part of the time, nice, big, white and yellow and straw-coloured daisies seemed quite at home. It was a lovely place for children to have of their own; and the year before, papa had added two other rooms to it, for our photographing —iron rooms, these were, and not at all ugly, though that would not have mattered much, as they were at the back, beside the little kitchen, where we were allowed to cook our luncheons and teas when we were spending a whole day on the shore.

      'Dods!' I exclaimed, as we stood there in silence, admiring our mansion, 'we must see about the flowers for the long boxes. It's getting quite time, for Bush has settled all about the bedding-out plants – he told me so yesterday – so he'll be able to tell us what he has to spare.'

      I spoke in utter forgetfulness – but it only lasted a moment – only, that is to say, till I caught the expression of Geordie's mournful blue eyes – he can make them look so mournful when he likes – fixed upon me in silent reproach.

      'Ida,' he said at last, 'what are you thinking of? What's the use?'

      'Oh, Dods! oh, dear, dear Doddie!' I cried – I don't think I quite knew what I was saying, – 'forgive me. Oh, how silly and unfeeling I seem! Oh, Doddie!'

      And then – I am not now ashamed to tell it, for I really had been keeping it in at the cost of a good deal of forcing myself – I just left off trying to be brave or self-controlled or anything, and burst out crying – regular loud crying. I am afraid I almost howled.

      George looked at me once more, then for a minute or so he turned away. I am not sure if he was crying, anyway he wasn't howling. But in an instant or two, while I was rubbing at my eyes with my handkerchief, and feeling rather, or very ashamed, I felt something come round my neck, crushing it up so tightly that I was almost choked, and then Doddie's voice in my ear, very gruff, very gruff indeed of course, saying —

      'Poor Ida, poor old Ida! I know it's quite as bad or worse for you. For a man can always go out into the world and fight his way, and have some fun however hard he works.'

      'That wouldn't make it any better for me, Dods,' I said – we both forgot, I think, that he was a good way off being a man just yet, – 'you're my only comfort. I don't mean that mamma isn't one, of course; but it's our business now to cheer her up. Papa said so ever so many times. I don't really know, though, how I could have cheered her up, or even tried to, if you had been away at school already!'

      Poor George's face darkened at this. It was rather an unlucky speech. He had thought of things already that had never come into my head. One was that it seemed unlikely enough now that papa would ever be able to send him to school at all – I mean, of course, to the big public school, for which his name had been down for ever so long, and on which, like all English boys, his heart was set. For he knew how expensive all public schools are.

      'Don't talk of school, Ida,' he said huskily. 'Luckily it's a good year off still,' for it had never been intended that he should go till he was fourteen; 'and,' with a deep sigh, 'we must keep on hoping, I suppose.'

      'Yes, and working,' I added. 'Whatever happens, Dods, you must work well, and I'll do my best to help you. Mightn't you perhaps gain a scholarship, or whatever you call them, that would make school cost less?'

      This remark was as lucky as the other had been unfortunate. Dods brightened up at once.

      'By Jove,' he said, 'what a good idea! I never thought of it. I'll tell you what, Ida; I'll ask Mr. Lloyd