CHAPTER V.

_THE PICNIC._

THE day of the picnic drew near at last, and Laura and Clara could talk of nothing else.

Pollie had a dress specially prepared for it, and her cousins said at least she would be no disgrace to them, which she considered high praise.

They, however, had so many secrets about the whole matter that Pollie often wished herself at home, in spite of the natural anticipation which such a day's pleasure was likely to create to one who had lived such a quiet life.

Her cousins were constantly whispering about H. F., and openly talked of the numbers to be there, the splendid arrangements made, and the picturesqueness of the woods to which they were to drive.

"Shall you introduce me to H. F.?" asked Pollie of Clara, as they were dressing on the eventful morning.

"Oh, don't fuss!" exclaimed Clara, hurrying with her tight dress, and despairing of being in time. "You just keep quiet, and you'll see! I do not suppose there will be any introducing. I expect he will come and make ma's acquaintance soon, for he is devoted to Laura, and I expect—"

But there she broke off, and then added hastily, "But don't fuss or stare, there's a dear, and you will see for yourself."

So they started, and Pollie's quiet eyes had plenty of time to note everything, as her cousins took but little notice of her. Had it not been that she made acquaintance with a little lame girl, she would have been utterly alone.

Hand in hand they wandered among the lovely woods, picking honeysuckle and wild roses, while from afar they could see the groups of young people flitting hither and thither, Laura and Clara in their bright pink dresses being conspicuous among the gay crowd.

By-and-by Pollie missed Laura from the rest, and was wondering where she could be, when two girls came strolling up and seated themselves on the blue bank of wild pansies, where she and her little new friend were sitting.

"They've gone up the hill to see the view," remarked one of them.

"I have not seen them at all," said the other.

"She looks sweetly pretty to-day," said the first, "and ever since he has been staying here, he's been devoted to her. But then he always is to the last pretty face he comes across. Then he goes away and forgets. At least that's what he has done where I live near Exeter. There are two or three girls whose hearts he has broken there—"

"I hope he will not treat Laura—"

"Oh, please!" said Pollie, starting up. "I did not know you were talking of anyone I knew. Please, I will go away."

She hurried from the spot with burning cheeks, her little lame friend hobbling after her as quickly as she could.

"Did you ever see so many wild flowers?" she said, when at length she caught her up.

"Yes," said Pollie absently.

"Are you very vexed?" asked the girl, looking up at her. "I don't like you to be vexed."

"Rather," said Pollie, "but it is a thing I can't do anything in. I did not mean to hear their secrets, and now I do not know whether I ought to tell Laura."

"Perhaps she knows," suggested the girl.

Pollie shook her head. "They've been carried away with the fun, but I am afraid it isn't right to keep it all from their mother. That's why I am vexed."

The lame girl put her hand into Pollie's with comforting little pressure, but her next words surprised her very much. "Did you notice that it was I who sat by you on that Thursday night?"

That Thursday night was to Pollie truly "a night to be much remembered." There could be no other in her calendar.

She turned and looked into the lame girl's face. "Were you?" she asked.

"Yes, close to you. I guessed what you felt by what I felt. And when I saw your face coming out, I knew you had 'come' as I had."

"Oh, Daisy! I was just going to tell you about it when those girls came and sat down by us."

"And I was just going to tell 'you,'" said Daisy smiling. "I thought—but I know so little—only when you looked worried just now I thought—"

How delicately the words were spoken! Pollie knew by the flush on Daisy's face that they were costing her a great deal.

"You thought, dear?"

"That it was so nice to carry our worries, whatever they are, to the Lord Jesus, and He would see to them."

"Yes," said Pollie, with a little sob, "I do. I've had so many worries since that Thursday; and yet—"

"Yet you would not go back, would you? That's just like me. I do believe since that Thursday I have minded more about my bad uncle than I did before, but then I've been more comforted than I ever was before."

"Oh, so have I!"

"And only this morning," Daisy went on softly, "when we got out of the brake, your cousin would have stayed to help me out. But he—that gentleman who was talking to her all the way—he said 'Don't stop for that lame child; she will be all day getting out!'"

"Oh!" said Pollie sorrowfully. "How could he?"

"That is why I said I thought she knew. She could not help knowing after that."

"Poor little Daisy!"

"It did not matter. That was just another time that my Lord Jesus comforted me. I just told Him that my heart was made heavy, and somehow it was like the look at the brazen serpent again—I mean when I spoke to Jesus—I was made whole. Isn't it wonderful?"

Thus the day passed away, and to those two at any rate it was a happy day. They kept near each other all the time, and drove back in the evening in the same brake.

Clara and Laura arrived home very tired and strangely dull. Very little could be got out of them by their mother, who expected to hear long histories of what they had done and whom they had seen.

But when Pollie was undressing, Clara came in and shut the door.

"Mary," she said in a low tone, "don't you let out a word to ma about H. F. I believe, after all, he's a dreadful flirt. He's going away by the first train to-morrow morning, and I do not believe we shall ever see him again."

"I don't think he can be very good or kind," said Pollie gently; "for if it is the one I once saw with Laura, who gave that poor dog such a kick—"

"Yes, that was he. He has wished us good-bye, and it is all over I do believe; for when I asked him if he were not going to fulfill his promise of calling on ma, he said laughing, 'I'll keep it ten years hence, Miss Clara, if I don't forget!' And then he jumped back into the brake and drove off."

"Does Laura mind much?" asked Pollie, hesitating.

"You don't know how much!" exclaimed Clara. "He's been with her almost all day long for a month, sometimes at one place and sometimes at another, and if ma knew about it, I don't know what she would say. Well it can't be helped, I suppose; and Laura will have to get over it as best she can."

Pollie had never seen Clara so dispirited before. She got up and put her arms round her lovingly.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"It's very kind of you to say so," said Clara, wiping her eyes, "for I'm sure we have not deserved much pity, we've been so horrid to you all this fortnight. But if you'll not tell ma, we will never cease to thank you."

She raised herself hastily as she heard a step outside.

"I do not see that it is my business unless I am asked," said Pollie slowly, "but you'll be ever so much happier if you tell all yourselves. Do, do, Clara!"

But Clara only shook her head. "I couldn't," she murmured.

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