Part 21 (2/2)

”How little I deserve it!” thought she humbly and gratefully, ”and how can I ever repay Malcolm for his goodness?”

Their dull little parlour looked very different now that it was enlivened by the presence of the two newcomers; and Helen could scarcely believe it to be the same room in which, but yesterday, she had pa.s.sed hours of such agonising suspense. So thoroughly penitent and softened did she feel that she offered no opposition to anything proposed, and it was therefore arranged that as soon as Helen was well enough to travel they should all return home together to relieve poor Aunt f.a.n.n.y's anxiety.

”I wonder,” said Helen, with a little sigh, a few days afterwards, when they were packing up their painting materials, ”I wonder if I shall ever finish my sketch of the Black Lake.”

”I don't like to make rash promises,” said Malcolm, ”but if somebody I know is _very_ good perhaps next summer she may see the Black Lake again, provided she will neither catch cold nor tumble off her pony.”

Edith laughed and Helen blushed.

”But there's one thing still,” said Edith, ”which I don't understand.

Why, Malcolm, did you always shut your door as the clock struck thirteen?”

”Very simply explained,” replied he. ”The first night I was here I was sitting up reading till midnight and thought I heard it strike thirteen.

I thought it very odd, and for a night or two I listened till it began to strike and then opened my door to make sure I was not mistaken. And one night I went out with my candle to examine the clock, trying to make out the cause of it, and to see if I could put it right. No man, they say, can resist meddling with a clock even though he is no mechanical genius.”

”All the same,” said Edith triumphantly, ”notwithstanding your examinations, you and no one else can tell the reason why that clock does strike thirteen.”

THE END.

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