CHAPTER II

Quite Impossible

"THAT is done. Now you may go," said Miss Storey, quite as glad as Hecla was, for she had a great anxiety on her mind, and she was longing to be alone that she might consider what to say to her sister, Anne, who might come in at any moment.

Hecla rushed off like a small whirlwind, only to be called back.

"You are forgetting everything, my dear. Put your work away—neatly!—your thimble and cotton in the box—and pick up those bits of cotton. And set your chair in the right place. No, not there!" As Hecla ran it against another chair, with a bang.

Miss Storey sighed. "When I was your age, I did not need to be told the same things over and over every day."

"Not when you were ten years old!"

"No; nor when I was eight."

Hecla stood motionless; the chair tilted up on its back legs as she held it.

"Weren't you never naughty, auntie?"

"No doubt I was sometimes. All children are. But I do not think I often forgot things that I was told to do."

Hecla left the chair tilted on one side, with a foot on a stool, and came close to Miss Storey.

"Won't you tell me, please, about when you really truly were a naughty child, auntie? Please do."

Miss Storey gazed with rather puzzled eyes into the anxious little face.

"I think you ought rather to wish to hear about when I was good," she said patiently, though that crooked chair tried her dreadfully, and she did so long to be by herself.

"But you've told me that—oh, heaps of times! And I do want to know about when you did something naughty—ever so naughty!"

"Not now. Perhaps some other day, when you have been particularly good. I don't say you have been exactly naughty to-day, but still I should like to see you trying a little harder not to forget everything you are told. Now you have to go out."

And actually—again!—Hecla was marching off, without a thought of that unfortunate chair. Again she had to be called back, and again she rammed it hastily into the wrong place, banging the back of another chair against the wall-paper, which the two aunts were always so careful to guard from unsightly marks. Of course the bang left a dent, and when at length Hecla vanished, Miss Storey sighed and closed her eyes, and murmured—

"What a child it is! And to think of—another! Impossible!"

Back whisked Hecla, bursting open the door, and rushing across the room.

"Oh, auntie, please! May I go and see Chris?"

"Not to-day."

"Please! I want to see him—ever so much!"

"No, not to-day."

"Only just for one minute, auntie!"

"No. That is enough, Hecla. Do as you are told. You are to have a walk in the country—not to the shops. Remember."

Hecla went away slowly, and Miss Storey folded her hands together, setting herself to think. With that restless little being in the room, she had found thinking out of the question.

No sooner had she settled herself than the door opened again, this time very gently. A lady appeared, just a little taller than herself and quite as slim, but younger-looking. Miss Storey's hair was fast turning grey, while Miss Anne's was all a soft light brown. She wore a shady hat, and she had pretty, kind, blue eyes.

"Anne! Sit down, my dear. I want to tell you something."

Miss Anne obeyed slowly. She had been educated never to do anything in a hurry.

"The second post has brought me a letter from Frederick. He asks something unexpected—something which I really do not think we can grant. I do not see that it is possible." Miss Storey spoke in a troubled voice. "I really do not think we can!"

Miss Anne made a little movement, as if holding out her hand for the letter, but she checked herself.

"Yes, you shall see it. I wish you to see it. In fact, it is written to you as well as to me. But I wanted to prepare you first. It came upon me quite as a shock. All the morning I have had it on my mind, and Hecla has been more forgetful than ever—really very trying, poor child. But you will see what they ask—Frederick and Mary, I mean. He has the offer of a good appointment in a place very unhealthy for children. They cannot take little Ivy, and Mary says she cannot let her husband go without her. And they ask—us!"

Miss Anne read the letter slowly. Then she looked up at her sister and read it again.

"You see! The thing is impossible. Quite impossible! A child of five! To come here as if our hands were not full enough already! A child of five! What a dreadful idea!"

Miss Anne's soft blue eyes had a curious light in them. She did not look as if the idea were so dreadful to her.

"I cannot imagine what they are thinking about to ask such a thing," pursued Miss Storey, her little thin hands trembling. "Of course, when our dear sister was taken from us, there could be no question about giving a home to her child. But this is not at all the same. Frederick is only our cousin."

"Our only first cousin!" murmured Miss Anne.

"Yes, but still—he really has no right to expect anything of the sort. And—five years old! Such a troublesome, mischievous age. Hecla is trying enough, so careless and forgetful. Still, she does understand, when one explains to her. But—five years old—a mere baby! We should have to send Elisabeth away, and have an older servant. Impossible!"

"But—" uttered Miss Anne.

"You have read it all!"

"Twice through. You see, Frederick would not let it be any expense to us."

Miss Storey held up her head. "If the child came, I certainly would not be paid for it. Quite out of the question!"

"Frederick seems to think he ought not to refuse this offer."

"I suppose he ought not. But—Mary might remain behind for a time."

"And let him go alone? Oh no! And, Millicent, they have nowhere else to send the little one, except to school. Think! School at five years old! Poor wee pet!"

"Other people have the same difficulties, my dear Anne. I do not see that we are called upon to give a home to all the children in the Storey family. It is out of the question. Quite out of the question."

The sparkle in Miss Anne's blue eyes was quenched.

"Then I suppose you will write and tell Frederick that he must send Ivy to school."

"I shall write and explain. There is nothing else to be done."

Miss Storey gazed round the room, seeing in imagination a small rampageous infant rushing about, teasing the canary, worrying the cat, upsetting everything, behaving altogether precisely as little girls of five should not behave. "It is impossible," she said again. "Frederick ought not to have asked such a thing of us."

"If it cannot be, I suppose there is no more to be said," Miss Anne regretfully observed, standing up. "I am sorry. Poor little Ivy!"

"We are just beginning to get Hecla a little into order; and another child in the house would upset her completely. They would make one another naughty. No, dear Anne, it cannot be. I am quite decided."

"Then you will write," Miss Anne said, and she went out, that her sister might not see tears in her eyes.

In the passage, Hecla ran plump against her.

"Gently, dear. Where are you going?"

"Out for a walk." Hecla's face was all sunshine again, and she held it up for a kiss.

"Elisabeth and I are going."

"Where is Elisabeth?"

"She'd got to do something first in the kitchen, and she said she'd meet me at the back gate."

"I'll walk down the garden with you."

Sometimes, when Miss Storey was not at hand, Miss Anne would indulge in a little run with her niece; and she did so now. Hecla slipped an arm through hers, pulling hard, and Miss Anne ran briskly all down the back garden pathway.

"Auntie, I wish you'd come for a walk."

"I'm wanted indoors, dear. I have been out already."

"Elisabeth can't tell me stories; and I like stories. Auntie Anne, weren't you ever naughty when you were a little girl?"

"Very often naughty, I'm afraid."

That was consoling. "I'm glad. Won't you tell me some day all about your being naughty?"

"Perhaps, some day. But you mustn't be glad, Hecla. You ought to be sorry when people are naughty."

"If it was a grown-up person that was naughty!" suggested Hecla. "But not if it was once you, auntie."

Miss Anne was puzzled, not seeing what the child meant.

"Here is Elisabeth," she said. "Now be sure you get back in good time. Elisabeth has to lay the cloth, you know, at one o'clock. You have just an hour."

Hecla nodded, smiled, promised, and ran off, Elisabeth trying to catch her.

Miss Anne walked slowly back to the house, pausing on the way to look at her favourite flowers, and thinking hard about poor Frederick and Mary, obliged to leave their dear little child behind, and not knowing where to send her.

"If only we could take little Ivy in! I should love to have another," she whispered. "Children in the house make life so different!" Then she looked up, almost guiltily, as if it were wrong not to feel as her sister did. And yet again she murmured aloud: "Poor little Ivy! If only we might!"

Later she returned to the drawing-room, where Miss Storey sat as before, calmly knitting. A letter lay at her side, addressed and stamped.

"I have written to Frederick, Anne."

Something in Miss Storey's face brought a gleam of hope. She looked tired and pale, but the smile was unusual. Miss Anne almost held her breath.

"I have told Frederick that we will give little Ivy a home. I could not say anything else when I began to—Why, my dear Anne!"

For Miss Anne broke into a little cry of joy, and dropped down on her knees in front of Miss Storey's chair, looking up with eyes that overflowed.

"My dear Anne! You are quite agitated."

"I'm so glad—so glad!" almost sobbed Anne. "I could not bear to think of that poor little pet going away among strangers when we might—when perhaps we could have had her. Thank you, dear Millicent."

"Why did you not tell me that you wished it so much?"

"I could not, of course, if you felt that it was impossible."

"I did feel so at first, very strongly. But when I began to write, somehow there was nothing else to be done." Miss Storey hesitated, and a faint pink flush rose in her cheeks. "It seemed to me, I—saw—I seemed to see our dear Lord, when the little children were brought to Him—taking them in His Arms. And I wondered if, perhaps, He wanted us to take little Ivy for Him, and then—then—I could do nothing else but write and tell Frederick. It will be something of a trial, no doubt, but still—still—if it has to be—"

Miss Storey sighed, yet smiled bravely, and Miss Anne looked radiant.

"Dear Millicent, I'm sure you never will regret it. Ivy was such a little darling when we saw her last."

"Two and a half years old! But she is five now."

"She shall not be any trouble to you—if I can help it."

"Ah! But all will be right. We cannot do anything else," said Miss Storey.