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[Illustration: The old lady tapped her stick impatiently on the hard
gravel.
PAGE 36.]
ROBIN REDBREAST
A STORY FOR GIRLS
BY
MRS MOLESWORTH
AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS;' 'THE PALACE IN THE GARDEN;' 'A CHARGE FULFILLED;'
'IMOGEN;' 'THE BEWITCHED LAMP,' etc.
WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY ROBERT BARNES
W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
A good old country lodge, half hid with blooms
Of honeyed green, and quaint with straggling rooms.
LEIGH HUNT.
Give me simplicity, that I may know Thy ways,
Know them and practise them.
GEORGE HERBERT.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE HOUSE IN THE LANE 7
II. THE OLD LADY 23
III. TWO JACINTHS 39
IV. A LETTER AND A DISCUSSION 54
V. AN OLD STORY 69
VI. BESSIE'S MISGIVINGS 84
VII. AN INVITATION 99
VIII. DELICATE GROUND 116
IX. THE INDIAN MAIL 135
X. THE HARPERS' HOME 150
XI. GREAT NEWS 164
XII. '"CAMILLA" AND "MARGARET," YES' 181
XIII. MAMMA 192
XIV. A COURAGEOUS PLEADER 206
XV. LADY MYRTLE'S INTENTIONS 224
XVI. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 239
XVII. TWO DEGREES OF HONESTY 255
XVIII. I WILL THINK IT OVER 270
XIX. UNCLE MARMY'S GATES 281
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE OLD LADY TAPPED HER STICK IMPATIENTLY ON THE
HARD GRAVEL _Frontispiece_
AND THEN FRANCES RELATED THE WHOLE, MARGARET LISTENING
INTENTLY TILL ALMOST THE END Page 75
JACINTH'S BROWS CONTRACTED, AND THE LINES OF HER
DELICATE FACE HARDENED, BUT SHE SAID NOTHING 141
JACINTH SAT DOWN ON A STOOL AT LADY MYRTLE'S FEET
AND LOOKED UP IN HER FACE 177
'IT IS SO GOOD OF YOU, MEETING ME LIKE THIS,' THE
YOUNGER WOMAN WHISPERED 207
'AH WELL!' SAID LADY MYRTLE, 'ANOTHER DREAM VANISHED!' 243
ROBIN REDBREAST.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOUSE IN THE LANE.
It stood not very far from the corner--the corner where the lane turned
off from the high-road. And it suited its name, or its name suited it.
It was such a pretty, cosy-looking house, much larger really than it
seemed at the first glance, for it spread out wonderfully at the back.
It was red too--the out-jutting front, where the deep porch was, looking
specially red, in contrast with the wings, which were entirely covered
with ivy, while this centre was kept clear of any creepers. And high up,
almost in the roof, two curious round windows, which caught and
reflected the sunset glow--for the front was due west--over the top of
the wall, itself so ivy grown that it seemed more like a hedge, might
easily have been taken as representing two bright, watchful eyes. For
these windows were, or always looked as if they were, spotlessly clean
and shining.
'What a quaint name! how uncommon and picturesque!' people used to say
the first time they saw the house and heard what it was called. I don't
know if it will spoil the prettiness and the quaintness if I reveal its
real origin. Not so _very_ long ago, the old house was a queer, rambling
inn, and its sign was the redbreasted bird himself; somewhere up in the
attics, the ancient board that used to swing and creak of a windy night,
was still hidden--it may perhaps be there to this day! And somebody (it
does not matter who, for it was not any somebody that has to do with
this story) took a fancy to the house--fast growing dilapidated, and in
danger of sinking from a respectable old inn into a very undesirable
public-house, for the coaches had left off running, and the old traffic
was all at an end--and bought it just in time to save it from such
degradation.
This somebody repaired and restored it to a certain extent, and then
sold it again. The new owner enlarged and improved it, and built the
high wall which now looked so venerable; for already this was many, many
years ago. The present owner of Robin Redbreast was the daughter of this
gentleman--or nobleman rather--and she had lived in it ever since the
death of her husband, fully twenty years ago.
She was an old woman now. Her name was Lady Myrtle Goodacre. The
Goodacres, her husband's family, belonged to a distant county, and when
_her_ Mr Goodacre died, her connection with his part of the country
seemed to cease, for she had no children, and her thoughts turned to the
neighbourhood of her own old home, and the pretty quaint house not very
far from it, which had been left her by her father, the late earl. Project Gutenberg
Robin Redbreast: A Story for Girls
Molesworth, Mrs.
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