the day after josephine's arrival at the glen was friday—market day at midbury. miss basset was in the habit of attending the market to buy butter, and eggs, and poultry. she drove a little phaeton, drawn by a fat pony called tommy, and was generally accompanied by an elderly groom, barnes but this morning when she inquired, at the breakfast-table, how the young people were going to spend the day, may cried—

"oh, aunt ann, do take us to market with you!"

although the twins were not related to miss basset and her brother, they always called them aunt and uncle, and loved them as though they were.

"what, all of you?" said miss basset, smiling indulgently.

"yes, please," may answered. "donald could have the seat beside you, and josephine and i could sit opposite. we'd walk the hill, wouldn't we, josephine?"

"oh, yes!" josephine agreed readily.

she had risen feeling sad and depressed, but when, on coming downstairs, her aunt and uncle had kissed her affectionately, her heart had warmed towards them, whilst her spirits had risen immediately.

"donald could remain in the carriage and look after tommy whilst we were in the market," remarked miss basset, "then we shouldn't want barnes. well, dears, i've no objection to your accompanying me."

so it was arranged. after breakfast mr. basset took josephine to look at his chrysanthemums, which were in full bloom. then he showed her what he called his "winter garden" —the green house where grew primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and other plants which flower about christmas under glass. and all the while he talked to her of her father, telling her stories of his boyhood, and assuring her that paul had always been a very dear boy, hearing which, she felt that already she loved uncle john very much. she left him reluctantly when it was time for her to go to get ready for the drive to midbury; for his talk had cheered her, and soothed the heartache which, though she never spoke of it, had not left her since she and her father had been separated.

miss basset always started for market at eleven o clock; so ten minutes after that hour found her, accompanied by the three children, driving along the road towards the town.

"we must not hurry tommy, for he has a heavier load than he's accustomed to," she remarked; "let him take his time."

tommy's pace, on the outward journey, was not much faster than a man would walk, and when he came to the hill may had mentioned he stopped of his own accord. the little girls got out and walked the hill, arriving at the top as soon as the carriage. there a halt was made for a few minutes so that josephine should look at the view—a beautifully wooded valley in the midst of which lay the town.

"this is tor hill," said miss basset, "and that thatched house nearly at the foot of the hill is the blacksmith's—between that and the town there is only one other dwelling—vine cottage—"

"oh, such a funny old woman lives there, josephine!" may interposed; "she's called mrs. rumbelow, and she's bent almost two-double! she lives quite by herself, i believe."

"look, josephine," said miss basset, "you can see the tower of the parish church—it's almost in the centre of the town. but that's not the church we attend as a rule. there's a church much nearer where we generally go. come, dears!"

josephine and may took their seats in the carriage again. tommy descended the hill carefully, passed the blacksmith's, and, a few minutes later, vine cottage; then, on reaching the town, suddenly began to trot. he trotted along the principal street, fore street, and, turning down a side street, arrived at a large square space on one side of which were the market buildings. there, close to the entrance of the butter market, he pulled up.

"he knows exactly where to stop," miss basset remarked, as she handed the reins to donald and got out of the carriage followed by the two little girls. "we shall not be long, i expect, donald."

"oh, don't hurry, aunt ann!" the boy answered; "i like watching the people."

josephine had never before seen anything like the busy scene inside the butter market. it was a spacious, airy building, filled with row after row of stalls laden with baskets full of dairy produce. directly inside the chief entrance was a huge crate, in charge of two boy scouts, and inside the crate were rabbits, poultry, vegetables, and various parcels, whilst in one corner was a big basket containing a dozen or so of eggs.

"oh!" exclaimed miss basset, addressing one of the boys, "these are gifts for the voluntary aid hospital, i suppose?"

"yes, ma'am," he answered, adding: "the first lot of wounded arrived last night."

"oh, dear me!" exclaimed the old lady, "oh, dear me!"

"aunt ann," said josephine, "i should like to give something to the hospital. what can i buy?"

"eggs?" suggested miss basset. "really, though, there's no necessity for you to give anything. i will speak to your uncle and get him to send a present of apples and vegetables from the garden."

"but i want to give something myself," josephine answered; "i will buy some eggs."

she bought a dozen, and placed them in the egg basket inside the crate. then miss basset made her purchases, which her young companions carried for her to the carriage; they told donald about the crate of gifts for the soldiers' hospital.

"josephine has bought some eggs and given," may told her brother, "but i've no money. i spent my last week's pocket-money in chocolates; i shan't do that again."

"i've only threepence," donald admitted. "shall we ask aunt ann to buy us something, and—"

"no, no!" his sister broke in, "it wouldn't be our present at all then."

the twins received their pocket-money every monday, but they were generally penniless by the end of the week. hitherto they had always spent their money on themselves; it had never occurred to them to do otherwise.

from the butter market josephine was taken into the adjoining building, where there were stalls laden with goods of all sorts, including second-hand clothing and books, stationery, and flowers and ferns in pots. then there was the fruit and vegetable market to be seen, and after that a cheap jack selling umbrellas. he had a wonderful flow of language, and pressed his goods so cleverly that he sold them at a surprisingly quick rate.

josephine was greatly interested in all she saw and heard, and was sorry when miss basset at length said it was time to go home. they were all in the carriage and about to start, when donald exclaimed: "oh, there's dr. farrant!" and the owner of the name—a pleasant-faced man of about fifty—came to miss basset's side and spoke to her.

"how do you do?" the old lady said cordially. "you're quite a stranger! you haven't been to the glen for a fortnight or more."

"because i have been more than usually busy," he replied, "and i knew my patient could do without me." he smiled at donald as he spoke.

"i hear you are to give your services at the voluntary aid hospital," miss basset remarked.

he assented.

"have you been over it?" he inquired. "no? oh, you should! we have some patients now—they will be pleased to receive visitors. bring your young folks to see them, they will help cheer them up."

"this is our great niece from india," miss basset said, indicating josephine; "she only arrived yesterday. her father's regiment has been ordered to the front, and she is going to remain with us till the war is over. oh, this terrible war!" the old lady shuddered.

"yes, it is indeed a terrible war," dr. farrant agreed; "but we can face it bravely, knowing we're fighting for truth, and honour, and right against might. ah, your pony's in a hurry to be off, i see!"

tommy had made a sudden start forward with an impatient shake of his head, and now, as the doctor moved back, he began to turn of his own accord, and two minutes later he had started for home. it was evident he intended returning faster than he had come, for it was as much as his mistress could do to check his pace until he was out of the town.

"you see, he can go well when he likes, my dear," miss basset said, smiling at josephine. "he is a bad starter, but he will soon take us home."

it was one o'clock when the glen was reached.

tommy waited to be given a slice of bread, then was led away by barnes to the stable, whilst miss basset and the young people went to get ready for dinner.

"what are we going to do this afternoon?" may inquired during dinner. "what would you like to do, josephine?"

"i should like to write to father," josephine answered; "i've such a lot to tell him."

"but, my dear, you don't know where to write to him, do you?" questioned mr. basset.

"no, uncle john. he said probably he would reach england almost as soon as i should, but he would most likely go straight across to france. i mayn't hear from him for a little while, but i should like to begin a letter to him—i can finish it later on."

mr. basset nodded.

"you can write in my study," he said; "you will be undisturbed, for i shall be out. if it's fine i always go for a walk in the afternoon."

mr. basset's study was a large room, with a round table in the centre on which stood his microscope. the walls were lined with shelves—some filled with books, others with jars and bottles—and cabinets holding many treasured possessions. in front of the window, which looked into a fruit garden, was a writing-table, which mr. basset told his niece she was at liberty to use.

josephine commenced her letter, but before she had been writing long she began to feel the atmosphere very oppressive. there was a big fire in the grate, and the weather was mild for the time of the year. rising, she opened the low french window to let in some air, and, as she did so, she heard a voice in the garden say—

"oh, cook, it's pitiful! i feel like crying only thinking about it! poor little fatherless lamb!"

josephine stepped through the open window and looked for the speaker, who proved to be the parlour-maid. the girl had been speaking to the cook through the front kitchen window which faced the fruit garden. her eyes—very kind eyes they were—were full of tears.

"what is the matter?" josephine asked.

"there's nothing the matter, miss," jane replied; "cook and i've only been talking of the belgians."

"was it a belgian you called a poor little fatherless lamb?"

jane nodded.

"there was a belgian baby born at midbury last night," she explained; "the mother's a widow—her husband's been killed in the war."

"oh, poor woman!" murmured josephine, her cheeks paling.

"aye, poor woman indeed!" agreed jane. "cook hears—the milkman told her—that no preparations had been made for the baby's arrival, the mother having fled from belgium without any belongings and being without money. i've been saying to cook i wish i had a nice warm shawl to give the poor infant, but i haven't."

"i have!" josephine cried eagerly, "a beautiful one made of white shetland wool! oh, i'd so like the baby to have it! could it be managed, jane?"

"why, yes, miss. it's my evening out, and if you'd trust the shawl to me i'd leave it at the house where the belgians are living. but perhaps you'd better speak to your aunt about it, miss."

"oh, yes!" agreed josephine, "i will!"

miss basset, when consulted, at first rather objected to josephine's parting with the shawl, which was almost new, but when she saw her niece's heart was set on giving it, she said—

"well, dear, do as you like. i only thought one less valuable might do. i am sure in my wardrobe there must be an old shawl i could do without."

"oh, no, thank you, aunt ann!" josephine broke in quickly, "i would rather give my own."

"very well, dear. it is a beauty. the baby will be quite grand."

"mrs. ford made the shawl for me on the voyage; she thought i might feel the cold and be glad to wrap it around me in the night," josephine explained. "i shall tell her what i have done with it."

"she will not be hurt at your parting with her present?" asked miss basset.

"i am sure she will not! oh, aunt ann, think of that poor little baby with no father—" josephine broke down suddenly, and burst into tears.