wooden toy in
pleasant anticipation of the "dinner party," as Mrs. Moira grandly
called it, out of respect to the pot roast and the fruit cake which Miss
Lewis had sent them and which was hidden away in a huge crock in the
shed.

"Mom, can't I take the beads back with me? They're so pretty and I
haven't a thing that's nice," begged Beryl as the moment for her to
return to the Manor came.

"The Princess and the Beggar-maid!" laughed Dale.

"My fine lady must have her jewels!" added big Danny.

Beryl flushed under their teasing but held her tongue, for didn't she
always have that picture blazed in her heart of the moment when with her
violin she would hold enthralled her unappreciative family and thousands
of others? _Then_ they would not laugh at her!

"I'll be ever so careful of them and only wear them once in a while,"
she promised.

Though Mrs. Moira would, of course, have given her children anything
they wanted that was hers, she hesitated now, not from reluctance to
part with her one "pretty" but because suddenly out of the silent past
came the old father's words: "They are only beads. But they'll remind
you of this day." She had been seventeen then--a slip of a girl. Beryl
was almost sixteen now.

"The shame to me! Sure, it's only beads they are!" she laughed, with a
little catch in her voice. "Of course you shall take them."

CHAPTER X

THE LADY OF THE RUSHING WATERS

"What'll we do today?"

Beryl asked the question, turning from her post between the curtains of
Robin's sitting-room. Not in a tone of complaint did she speak, rather
as though weighing which pastime would be most worthy of the unexpected
holiday.

For poor Percival Tubbs had "neuralgy" and could not leave his room;
Harkness had told them when he carried in their breakfast.

"_This_ is just the kind of a day you'd like _something_ to happen,"
Beryl went on, permitting a sigh to convey how much she would welcome
that something. "It's all gray and mysterious. The hills look awfully
far away. It's lonesomey."

Robin looked anxiously to her companion. _She_ did not feel lonesome at
all. This room, where they ate their breakfast each morning at Harkness'
suggestion, was cosy and full of inviting books and pretty pictures and
comfy chairs; Harkness was ever so nice and concerned as to their
comfort, they were as secure from Mrs. Budge's hostility as thick walls
and Harkness' vigilance could make them and--best of all, a letter fr