Part 4 (1/2)

”Well, yes, miss, I suppose it is. Ah! she is signalled.”

”Who is signalled?” I asked. ”Is it Anastasia?”

”No, missy; the train. You grip hold of my hand, and I'll see you safe.

What a mite of a thing you be.”

I held the man's hand very firmly. I liked him immensely--I put him at once third in my heart. Father was first, Anastasia second, and the railway porter third.

The great train came thundering in, and a kind-looking gentleman, accompanied by a beautifully-dressed lady and a number of servants, alighted on the platform. But peer and peer as I would, I could not get a sight of Anastasia.

”Now, missy, you look out,” said the porter. ”Wherever do she be?”

”Hallo--hallo! Where have you dropped from?” said a voice at that moment in my ears, and, looking up, I saw that Sir John Carrington was a man who had come all the way from India on board the _Pleiades_, and that, of course, I knew him quite well.

”Why, Heather,” he said. ”My dear,” he continued, turning to his wife, ”here's Major Grayson's little girl. Heather, child, what are you doing here?”

”I am looking for Anastasia,” I said, in a bewildered sort of way.

Lady Carrington had a most sweet face. I had never noticed before how very lovely and kind it could be.

”You poor little darling,” she said, ”Anastasia isn't here.” Then she began whispering to her husband and looking down at me, and her soft, brown eyes filled with tears, and Sir John shook his head and I heard him say, ”Dear, dear, how very pathetic!” and then Lady Carrington said, ”We must take her home with us, John.”

”No, no,” I answered at that; ”I can't go home--I must wait until the _next_ train, for Anastasia will come by the _next_ train.”

”We'll see that she's met,” said Sir John. ”Come, Heather, you've got to come home with us.”

I have often wondered since what my subsequent life would have been had I really gone home that night with Sir John and Lady Carrington, whether the troubles which lay before me would ever have existed, and whether I should have been the Heather I now am, or not. But be that as it may, just as Lady Carrington had put sixpence into the hand of my kind porter and was leading me away towards the beautiful motor car which was waiting for her, a strong and very bony hand was laid on my shoulder, and a voice said fiercely, and yet with a tremble in it:

”Well, you are enough to try the nerves of anybody, you bad, naughty child!”

”Oh, Aunt Penelope,” I said. ”Oh, Aunt Penelope, I can't go back with you!”

”We knew this little girl,” said Sir John; ”she came from India on board the _Pleiades_ with us.”

”Heather Grayson came from India on board the _Pleiades_ to live with me,” said Aunt Penelope. ”Her father has just committed her to my care.

She is an extremely naughty child. I haven't the least idea who you are.”

”This is my card,” said Sir John.

When Aunt Penelope read the words on the card she became kinder in her manner.

”I suppose I must welcome you back again, Sir John,” she said. ”It is years and years since you visited your native place. But I won't detain you now. Heather, come with me.”

”Pray give us your name,” said Lady Carrington.

”Miss Despard, of Hill View,” was her answer, and then she took my hand and led me out into the street.

I suppose I was really feverish, or whatever that word signifies to a child, for I do not remember anything about what happened during the next few days; then by slow degrees memory returned to me. I was very weak when this happened. Memory came back in a sort of dim way at first, and seemed to be half real and half a dream. Once I was quite certain that I saw a tall and broadly-made man in the room, and that when he stood up his head nearly touched the ceiling, and that when he sat down by my cot and took my hand I said ”Daddy, daddy,” and after that I had a comfortable sleep. There is no doubt whatever that I had a sort of dream or memory of this tall man, not once, but twice or thrice; then I did not see him any more.

Again, I had another memory. Anastasia had really come by a train at last, and was in my room. She was bending over me and smoothing my bed-clothes, and telling me over and over again to be a good girl, and I kept on saying, ”Oh, Anastasia, don't let the pins stick in,” but even that memory faded. Then there came more distinct thoughts that seemed to be not memories but realities. Aunt Penelope sat by my bedside. There was nothing dreamlike about her. She was very upright and full of purpose, and she was always knitting either a long grey stocking or a short sock. She never seemed to waste a moment of her time, and while I looked at her in a dazed sort of way, she kept on saying, ”Don't fidget so, Heather,” or perhaps she said, ”Heather, it's time for your gruel,”