CHAPTER I.

Eileen and the Editor.

"PLEASE are you Mr. Charlton, the editor of 'Sunny Hours?'"

The fourteen-year-old girl who put the question—Eileen Bannister by name—looked a little puzzled as she spoke.

The man who had just risen from a deck-chair under the shadow of a tree was not Eileen's idea of an editor at all: she had expected to see some one much older.

"Yes," was the answer, pleasantly spoken, "I am; what can I do for you?"

"Oh, please," replied Eileen, who was carrying a long and rather bulky envelope in her hand, "I want to talk to you for five minutes, if I may. I won't stay longer, because an editor's time is precious, and besides the others are all waiting for me in the lane."

"Take this chair, Miss—er—' began Derrick Charlton, placing his own at her disposal.

"My name is Eileen Bannister," supplied the girl, "and I write stories."

Here a flush came into her intelligent little face—Eileen was small for her age.

"But I won't take your chair," she went on politely; "this seat where your papers are will do for me."

So saying, Eileen, who was not troubled with shyness, removed the papers with respectful care to a wicker table near by, and seated herself for a five minutes' chat.

Mr. Charlton, almost against his will, began to feel interested and amused.

"And so you write stories, do you?" he said. "But how came you to track me here?"

"I was going up to the house to call upon you," was the answer, "only I saw you on the lawn, and so—"

"I don't mean that," interrupted Mr. Charlton; "I am wondering how it is that you knew anything at all about me. I came to this out-of-the-world spot, by doctor's orders, for a holiday—not to read or write a single story.'

"Oh, I 'am' sorry," said Eileen; "perhaps I had better go away at once."

"No, the five minutes 'aren't' up yet. Tell me how you came to know of my whereabouts."

"Well, it was like this: Mrs. Stannard, your landlady, told our maid Sarah all about you, and we were ever so interested."

"Oh indeed! As you know so much about me, don't you think you might tell me a little about yourself?"

"Yes, if you would like to hear," said Eileen, nothing loth. "There are four of us. I'm the eldest; and after me comes Edward—we call him Teddy for short; then there's Nora and Frank. Daddy is away just now doing some work for his firm in America—he is illustrating a book for them. Daddy is an awfully clever artist, and he says I take after him. I've brought some little pictures," she went on, "that I've done for a story I want you to read if you will. I 'do' hope you'll like them."

"No doubt I shall," was the reply, "if you are an 'awfully clever artist' like your father."

The tone was so kindly that the satire was quite lost.

"Aren't there any more of you?" went on Mr. Charlton next. "Surely you haven't come to an end of your family history yet. What about your mother?"

The question was keenly regretted an instant later.

A sudden shadow came into Eileen's pretty blue eyes.

"I—I can't talk about her, please," she said, with a little catch in her voice. "She—she died just about a year ago, and since then—since then our housekeeper, Mrs. Weston, has mothered us. She is ever so kind, and we're very fond of her, but of course she isn't like—"

"Oh no, of course not," said Mr. Charlton, as Eileen hesitated; "I can quite understand that."

For a full minute there was silence, and then Eileen went on in quite her usual voice.

"We haven't got much money," she said, "and that is why I am trying to earn some. If the mortgage—that is a debt that daddy owes on the house—is not paid off before Christmas, we shall have to leave The Gables, our dear old home. We shall just hate going, for we love every stick and stone of it."

Mr. Charlton, having seen and admired the pretty gabled dwelling, could fully sympathize.

"We haven't told many people yet," proceeded Eileen, "but of course daddy knows—we four children are going to help pay off the mortgage. We've bought a money-box, and all that we earn is going to be put into it. Isn't it a good idea?"

"It is indeed," smiled Mr. Charlton. "I wish you luck, but I think you've undertaken rather a big task."

"I know we have," replied Eileen, "a very big task. But we've prayed about it, and we mean to do our best."

Mr. Charlton was touched by the little girl's evident sincerity.

At this moment a shrill, clear whistle was heard, and Eileen rose to go.

"My five minutes 'are' up now," she said, "and I must say good-bye. That is Teddy whistling for me—I expect they're tired of waiting. Here is my story," she added, holding out the big envelope. "You 'will' read it, won't you? That is, if you think your doctor wouldn't mind."

[Illustration: "HERE IS MY STORY," SHE ADDED, HOLDING OUT A BIG ENVELOPE.]

Mr. Charlton burst into a ringing laugh.

"I don't suppose he'd mind very much," said he, his eyes twinkling. "Yes, I'll read it, and later on you shall know what I think of it."

Shortly after this, with a friendly handclasp, the two parted.

No sooner had Eileen joined her brothers and sister at the gate than she was besieged with questions. Mr. Charlton could hear their voices, but not the words they were saying.

"Well!" It was Teddy, who first spoke. "Did you see the editor?"

"Did he look at your story?" asked Nora, before Eileen had time to answer.

"Did you feel frightened of him?" asked Frank, with a grin on his good-natured young face. "I expect he growled at you, like they say old Grimwood does when he's got the gout." (Mr. Grimwood was one of the residents of the village who had the unenviable reputation of a very hasty temper.)

Eileen laughed merrily—a laugh which reached Mr. Charlton's ears, as he once more settled himself to his papers.

"That's a sound to do one's heart good," he murmured. "I think I shall have to make the acquaintance of those youngsters. Who knows? They may help to brighten up a deadly dull holiday."

Soon after this there was silence, the voices dying away in the distance—Eileen meanwhile doing her best to answer all questions satisfactorily.

It was a cloudless August morning. The air was sweet with the songs of birds, and perfumed with the scent of roses wafted from cottage gardens. More than one turned to look after the children as they wended their way homewards, for owing to their friendly dispositions, they were great favourites in the village. Hazlenook, the pretty country spot where they lived, was situated near the sea, a fact which rendered it a desirable place for those who were seeking a quiet holiday, combined with bracing air.

The young people were just about to pass the door of the village shoemaker, when a gruff voice called from the open window.