Pamela, what you would rather do."

"I don't want to go—and I do—if you know what I mean," said Pamela.

They understood what she meant. But the matter had to be decided immediately, and so they all sat down and began to discuss it from each and every point of view, until at length, after much hesitation, Pamela made up her mind to accept Miss Crabingway's invitation.

Later in the day she and Michael walked round to the post-office and sent off the wire to Barrowfield; and Pamela also sent the signed paper off to Mr Sigglesthorne.

During the next few days Pamela lived in a state of excited rush and hurry. There seemed so much to be done, so many friends to see and say good-bye to; so many clothes to get ready and pack; so much shopping to do; and then there were a hundred and one odd jobs that she meant to attend to before she went away, and never got time to see to any of them after all. Everybody seemed very kind and anxious to help her as much as they could. Even John and twelve-year-old Olive begged to be allowed to help, and proposed that they should take a hand at packing Pamela's trunk. Olive, indeed, could not be persuaded that her help was not needed until she had been pacified with the gift of Pamela's glove-box and a scent satchet to keep for herself. That was always the easiest way to divert Olive's ambitions—make her a present of something you didn't want and she quickly forgot what she had been clamouring for a few minutes earlier. John, who was two years younger than Olive, was the 'baby' of the family in name only. John was sturdy, noisy, and emphatic in all he said and did—and was not so easily put off with gifts. He would accept the gift and then go on asking for the other thing as well. Fortunately he was not so insistent on helping to pack as on being allowed to sit on the lid of the trunk to squash it down when it was full and about to be locked. This little matter was easily arranged, and when everything was quite ready he was called in, asked to be so obliging as to cast his weight on to the top of the trunk—which he did with great alacrity—and the trunk was locked in triumph.

On the Monday night Mother came into Pamela's bedroom and wished her an extra good-night.

"Be sure to come home if you are unhappy, dear. Or if you are ill or anything—let me know—and bother the old fifty pounds," said Mother. "Promise me, Pamela—or I shall be so unhappy."

So Pamela promised. "But I'm sure to be all right, Mother, and you're not to worry about me at all, dear. But do take care of yourselves, all of you, till I come back."

Pamela said good night quite cheerfully, but after her mother had gone downstairs again she found that she did not feel cheerful a bit. She began to think things like "This is the last time I shall sleep in my own little room," and "This is the last time I shall hear Michael whistling on his way upstairs," until she made herself cry. Then she scolded herself for being so silly, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER III

BERYL

When Pamela alighted at Barrowfield station on the Tuesday afternoon daylight was beginning to fade and a fine drizzling rain had set in. She gazed round the deserted platform, and gave a shiver as a chilly little breeze rustled past her, stirring the loose bits of paper on the stone paving and making the half-closed door of the General Waiting Room creak dismally as it pushed it farther open. Pamela had been sitting for an hour and a half in the train, and she felt cold and stiff and suddenly depressed. She was the only passenger to get out at Barrowfield, and the only living soul about the place as far as she could see was a porter, who now came strolling down the platform and took charge of her luggage.

"Where to, miss?" inquired the porter; and his voice at once reminded Pamela of the voice of a man who used to come round selling muffins in Oldminster, and this made her conjure up an instant's vision of home and Mother and Michael and all of them sitting round the fire while Doris toasted muffins for tea. It was a ridiculous thing to think of at this moment, but she could not help it. How she wished she were at home, toasting muffins.... But the man was waiting.

"Miss Crabingway's house, Chequertrees," she answered. "Is it far from here?"

"'Bout a mile an' 'arf, Chequertrees is," said the porter.

"Oh, dear," said Pamela. "Well, can I get a cab or anything?"

Before the porter could reply the sound of heavy footsteps was heard on the wooden floor of the station entrance, and the next moment Tom Bagg hove into sight. Of course Pamela did not know what his name was then, though she knew it well enough afterward; you could not help knowing it if you stayed in Barrowfield more than a couple of hours, because Mr Bagg was a local celebrity. However, all Pamela knew at present was that a fat, burly man with an enormous waterproof cape and a waterproof hat stood before her. Here was the very person she wanted—the Barrowfield cab-man. He touched his hat with a fat forefinger.

"Evenin', miss. Ascuse me, but are you the young lady for Chequertrees?" he asked.

When Pamela had informed him that she was, he told her that he had had instructions from Miss Crabingway to convey her and her luggage from the station.

So Pamela got into the welcome cab outside, and was driven away through the dusk. She could not see much through the blurred and steaming windows, and the little she could make out appeared to be all hedges and trees. Presently she could feel that the cab was going downhill, then the pace slackened and it seemed to climb a little, then for a long time (or so it seemed to Pamela) the cab jogged along on level ground. The slow pace at which the cab moved along, the impossibility of seeing anything through the windows, and her impatience to reach her journey's end, made it seem a very long mile and a half from the station.

All at once the cab stopped with a violent jerk. And here was Chequertrees, at last. Tom Bagg clambered down from his seat and held the cab door open while Pamela got quickly out. He smiled genially down at her, and then pulled the iron bell-chain outside the gate of the house.

While Tom Bagg got her boxes down from the cab Pamela gazed at the house which was to be her home for the next six months. She could not see very much of the house from the gate—a tall iron-barred gate set into a high wall topped with ivy. There was a long and wide gravel path up to the front door, and Pamela could see that the house was covered with ivy and had many windows. The garden struck her as being a lovely place for hide-and-seek, on account of its thick bushes and number of big trees. As she passed through the gate and made her way along the path, the cabman following with her luggage, she saw that there was a light in one of the windows behind a red blind.

She had no time to notice anything else before the front door was opened by a middle-aged servant in white cap and apron.

"Oh, I'm Miss Heath—Pamela Heath," said Pamela, as the maid waited silently.

"Oh, please come in, miss," said the maid. "Miss Crabingway told us