Clare Avery. Emily Sarah Holt

      “And who is Mistress Blanche’s mistress or master belike?” demanded Barbara, laughing in her turn.

      “Nay, I’ve getten to th’ top,” said Jennet. “I can go no fur’.”

      “There’ll be a master some of these days, I cast no doubt,” observed Barbara, drily.

      “Happen,” returned Jennet. “But ’tis a bit too soon yet, I reckon.—Mrs. Meg, yon’s the breakfast bell.”

      Margaret caught the ball from Clare, and pocketed it, and the whole party went into the hall for breakfast. Here the entire family assembled, down to the meanest scullion-lad. Jennet took Clare’s hand, and led her up to the high table, at which Mistress Rachel had already taken her seat, while Sir Thomas and Lady Enville were just entering from the door behind it.

      “Ha! who cometh here?” asked Sir Thomas, cheerily. “My new daughter, I warrant. Come hither, little maid!”

      Clare obeyed rather shyly. Her step-father set her on his knee, kissed her, stroked her hair with a rather heavy hand, and bade her “be a good lass and serve God well, and he would be good father to her.” Clare was not sorry when the ordeal was over, and she found herself seated between Margaret and Barbara. Sir Thomas glanced round the table, where an empty place was left on the form, just opposite Clare.

      “Where is Jack?” he inquired.

      “Truly, I know not,” said Lady Enville languidly.

      “I bade him arise at four of the clock,” observed Rachel briskly.

      “And saw him do it?” asked Sir Thomas, with an amused expression.

      “Nay, in very deed—I had other fish to fry.”

      “Then, if Jack be not yet abed, I am no prophet.”

      “Thou art no prophet, brother Tom, whether or no,” declared Rachel. “I pray thee of some of that herring.”

      While Rachel was being helped to the herring, a slight noise was audible at the door behind, and the next minute, tumbling into his place with a somersault, a boy of eleven suddenly appeared in the hitherto vacant space between Rachel and Lucrece.

      “Ah Jack, Jack!” reprimanded Sir Thomas.

      “Salt, Sir?” suggested Jack, demurely.

      “What hour of the clock did thine Aunt bid thee rise, Jack?”

      “Well, Sir,” responded Jack, screwing up one eye, as if the effort of memory were painful, “as near as I may remember, ’twas about one hundred and eighty minutes to seven of the clock.”

      “Thou wilt come to ill, Jack, as sure as sure,” denounced Aunt Rachel, solemnly.

      “I am come to breakfast, Aunt, and I shall come to dinner,” remarked Jack: “that is as sure as sure.”

      Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily, bidding Jack help himself; while Rachel shook her head ominously over Jack’s future. Jack stood up, surveyed the table, and proceeded to make a wide gash in an enormous pie. Just as he was laying down knife and spoon, and retiring with his spoils, he caught a glimpse of Clare, who sat studying him in some trepidation and much curiosity.

      “Hallo! who are you?” was Jack’s unceremonious greeting.

      “Wilt thou ne’er learn to behave thyself, lad?” corrected Rachel.

      “You see, Aunt, none never learned me yet,” returned Jack coolly; looking at Clare in a manner which said, “I await your answer.”

      Sir Thomas good-naturedly replied for her.

      “ ’Tis thy new sister, my lad—little Clare Avery. Play none of thy tricks on her, Jack.”

      “My tricks, Sir?” demanded Jack with an air of innocent astonishment.

      “I know thee, lad!” said Sir Thomas shortly, but good humouredly.

      Jack proceeded to make short work of the pie, but kept his eyes on Clare.

      “Now, little maids,” said Rachel, when they rose from the table, “I will hear, you your tasks in an hour hence. Till the clock strike, ye may go into the garden.”

      “May we have some cakes with us, Aunt Rachel?” inquired Jack demurely.

      “Cake!” echoed Blanche, clapping her little fat hands.

      “Thou!” said Rachel. “Art thou a maid? I have nought to do with thy tasks. Be they ready for Master Tremayne?”

      Jack turned up the whites of his eyes, and turned down the corners of his mouth, in a style which exhibited a very emphatic No.

      “Go and study them, then, this minute,” said his Aunt.

      The party separated, Jack putting on a look which was the embodiment of despair; but Sir Thomas, calling Margaret back, put into her hands the plate of small cakes; bidding her take them to the garden and divide them among the children.

      “Brother, Brother!” remonstrated Rachel.

      “Tut! the cakes will do them no harm,” said he carelessly. “There are but a dozen or the like.”

      Margaret went first towards the garden, carrying the plate, Clare and Blanche following. As they reached the terrace, Lucrece overtook them, going on about a yard in advance of Margaret. When the latter turned her head to call Blanche to “come on,” Clare, to her utter amazement, saw Lucrece stop, and, as Margaret passed her, silently and deftly dip her hand into the plate, and transfer two of the little cakes to her pocket. The action was so promptly and delicately performed, leaving Margaret entirely unconscious of it, that in all probability it was not the first of its kind.

      Clare was intensely shocked. Was Lucrece a thief?

      Margaret sat down on a grassy bank, and counted out the cakes. There were eleven.

      “How is this?” she asked, looking perplexed. “There were thirteen of these, I am well assured, for I counted them o’er as I came out of hall. Who has taken two?”

      “Not I,” said Clare shortly.

      Blanche shook her curly head; Lucrece, silently but calmly, held out empty hands. So, thought Clare, she is a liar as well, as a thief.

      “They must be some whither,” said Margaret, quietly; “and I know where it is like: Lucrece, I do verily believe they are in thy pocket.”

      “Dost thou count me a thief, Meg?” retorted Lucrece.

      “By no manner of means, without thou hast the chance,” answered Margaret satirically, but still quietly. “Very well—thou hast chosen thy share—take it. Three for each of us three, and two over. Shall we give them to Jack? What say ye?”

      “Jack!” cried Blanche, dancing about on the grass.

      Clare assented shyly, and she and Blanche received their three cakes each.

      “Must I have none, Meg?” demanded Lucrece in an injured tone.

      “Oh ay! keep what thou hast,” said Margaret, calmly munching the first of her own three cakes.

      “Who said I had any?”

      “I said it. I know thee, as Father saith to Jack. Thou hast made thy bed—go lie thereon.”

      Lucrece marched slowly away, looking highly indignant; but before she was quite out of sight, the others saw her slip her hand into her pocket, bring out one of the little cakes, and bite it in two. Margaret laughed when she saw Clare’s look of shocked solemnity.

      “I said she had them—the sly-boots!” was her only comment.

      Clare finished her cakes, and ran off to Barbara, who, seated under the ash-tree, had witnessed the whole