The Empire Annual for Girls, 1911 | Page 5

strain deepened the frown on his brow. The road
was strewn with rough, sharp stones; but in another mile or two they
would be on a smooth high-road once more. If only they could last out
those few miles!
[Sidenote: A Puncture]
Bang! A sharp, pistol-like noise rent the air, a noise which told its own
tale to the listening ears. A tyre had punctured, and a dreary half-hour's
delay must be faced while the youthful chauffeur repaired the damage.
The passengers leaped to the ground, and exhausted themselves in
lamentations. They were already behind time, and this new delay would
make them later than ever. . . . Suddenly they became aware that they
were cold and tired--shivering with cold. Peg looked down at her boots,
and supposed that there were feet inside, but as a matter of sensation it
was really impossible to say. Margaret's nose was a cheery plaid--blue
patches neatly veined with red. Jack looked from one to the other and
forgot his own impatience in anxiety for their welfare.
"Girls, you look frozen! Cut away up to that house, and ask them to let

you sit by the fire for half an hour. Much better than hanging about here.
I'll come for you when we are ready."
The girls glanced doubtfully at the squat, white house, which in truth
looked the reverse of hospitable; but the prospect of a fire being
all-powerful at the moment, they turned obediently, and made their way
up a worn gravel path, leading to the shabbiest of painted doors.
Margaret knocked; Peg rapped; then Margaret knocked again; but
nobody came, and not a sound broke the stillness within. The girls
shivered and told each other disconsolately there was no one to come.
Who would live in such a dreary house, in such a dreary, solitary waste,
if it were possible to live anywhere else? Then they strolled round the
corner of the house, and caught the cheerful glow of firelight, which
settled the question, once for all.
"Let's try the back door!" said Margaret, and the back door being found,
they knocked again, but knocked in vain. Then Peg gave an impatient
shake to the handle, and lo and behold! it turned in her hand, and
swung slowly open on its hinges, showing a glimpse of a trim little
kitchen, and beyond that a narrow passage leading to the front door.
"Is any one there? Is any one there?" chanted Margaret loudly. She took
a hesitating step into the passage--took two; repeated the cry in an even
higher key; but still no answer came, still the same uncanny silence
brooded over all.
The girls stood still, and gazed in each other's eyes; in each face were
reflected the same emotions--curiosity, interest, a tinge of fear.
What could it mean? Could there be some one within these silent walls
who was ill, helpless, in need of aid?
"I think," declared Margaret firmly, "that it is our duty to look. . . ." In
after days she always absolved herself from any charge of curiosity in
this decision, and declared that her action was dictated solely by a
feeling of duty; but her hearers had their doubts. Be that as it might, the
decision fell in well with Peg's wishes, and the two girls walked slowly

down the passage, repeating from time to time the cry "Is any one
there?" the while their eyes busily scanned all they could see, and drew
Sherlock Holmes conclusions therefrom.
[Sidenote: What the Girls found]
The house belonged to a couple who had a great many children and
very little money. There was a cupboard beneath the stairs filled with
shabby little boots; there was a hat-rack in the hall covered with shabby
little caps. They were people of education and culture, for there were
books in profusion, and the few pictures on the walls showed an artistic
taste; they were tidy people also, for everything was in order, and a
peep into the firelit room on the right showed the table set ready for the
Christmas meal. It was like wandering through the enchanted empty
palaces of the dear old fairy-tales, except that it was not a palace at all,
and the banquet spread out on the darned white cloth was of so meagre
a description, that at the sight the beholders flushed with a shamed
surprise.
That Christmas table--should they ever forget it? If they lived to be a
hundred years old should they ever again behold a feast so poor in
material goods, so rich in beauty of thought? For it would appear that
though money was wanting, there was no lack of love and poetry in this
lonely home. The table was decked with great bunches of holly, and
before every seat a little