Cora and Eva betook themselves off to the sea, but Madge remained at Brooklands week after week. The house at Hampstead was let, the tenant wanted to keep it on. Bertram was well off, in comfortable rooms, running down each week to spend Sunday with his wife. London was said to be unbearably hot and stuffy, and none too healthy this season. The Brooks urged Madge to stay on with them, and she was nothing loth. It was most interesting to see how her new home was being transmogrified to receive her. It seemed to her that she had only to express a wish to see it instantly gratified. Again and again she had to remonstrate with Arthur for “spoiling her so dreadfully.” But it was a very delightful experience and she was as happy as the day was long. Her brother wrote to her from time to time, sometimes on business matters, sometimes just a little brotherly note. There was a letter from him one morning which contained a sentence which puzzled Madge a good deal. “I am glad you have remembered your promise to little Allumette at last. The poor little child has been looking very white and thin of late, but the country air will pull her up again. How happy she will be when she sees all the beautiful things about her. I have been sometimes afraid that those weeks at Hampstead rather unfitted her for the sharper battle of life she has to fight at home.” “What can he mean?” said Madge, half aloud. And when she read the passage in the letter aloud, Lady Brook said-- “I suppose somebody else has given the child an outing, and your brother thinks it is you.” “Oh, I suppose that is it,” answered Madge; “but I will ask Bertram when I write.” Nevertheless, the letter was never written. For a moment Madge’s conscience had been uneasy, but the press of things crowding into her life quickly drove all thoughts of little Allumette out of it. [Illustration: Decorative image] CHAPTER V. DARK DAYS. “Why, little Allumette! Where have all your roses gone? I thought you had learnt to grow them in Hampstead! What have you done with them now?” The child’s face had been pinched and wan the moment before, but at the sound of that well-remembered voice the blood came rushing back, and the light sprang into the wistful eyes. “Oh, sir, you have come back!” she exclaimed, as though the sunshine itself had returned with him. “Yes, I have come back. Did you think I had gone for good? I shall be going away again by-and-by; but I am here for a few weeks. What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you last? Sitting for any more pictures?” “No, sir, I’ve only been selling matches.” “Which do you like best?” Bertram was almost sorry he had put the question, for sudden tears sprang to the child’s eyes, and he saw that she could not reply. Some chord of memory had been struck. Plainly she could not think of those happy days at Hampstead without suffering the pangs of longing and regret.