On the counter stood a large tray of buns and tea-cakes--'splits' as they call them in those parts. They were new, and the smell was perfectly delicious. Mrs. Vercoe, saying, "I wishes you many returns of the day, missie," was about to take one up and present it to Poppy, when she stayed her hand. "If you've just had your dinner you'd rather have a bit of sweety, I reckon." "Oh no," gasped poor Poppy, in her desperation almost clutching at the tempting food. "I--I--thank you very much," she stammered. "I love plain buns. There's miffing I like so much." But when she had it she hesitated to begin to eat it; it seemed so selfish and greedy right there under those three pairs of hungry eyes. She longed to divide it, but did not like to. Esther, seeing her perplexity, came to her rescue. "Eat it, dear," she said softly, and Poppy never in her life was more glad to obey. Angela stepped forward, colouring a little. "Please, I want four farthing tea-cakes," she said, as calmly as she could speak. She was painfully conscious of Mrs. Vercoe's look of surprise. "And--and please," she went on, growing painfully embarrassed, for it was not easy now it had come to the point, "do you want an egg, Mrs. Vercoe?" Mrs. Vercoe looked even more surprised, but she only said civilly that she "could do with a dozen." "I've only one at present," said Angela. "It is one my own hen laid, but you can have some more to-morrow morning." "Very well, my dear," said amiable Mrs. Vercoe, "that will do. I'll put the one here until I get the rest. Shall I give you the money, missie, or would Miss Ashe prefer to have it in goods?" "Oh please," said poor Angela, "this one is my own, and I should like-- some more tea-cakes for it." "Tea-cakes!" said Mrs. Vercoe in a bewildered voice. "Why, yes, my dear, of course; but--you'll excuse my asking, but--there isn't nothing the matter, is there?" she inquired confidentially, peering at them over her big glasses. Then Esther stepped forward. "Yes, Mrs. Vercoe, there is. It's--it's nothing wrong that we've done, but you must promise not to say a word about it to anybody, please. It wouldn't have mattered _quite_ so much, but now we have pretended to Cousin Charlotte that we enjoyed our lunch it would be dreadful. You will never say a word to any one, will you, Mrs. Vercoe?" Mrs. Vercoe promised solemnly, whereupon the four tongues were unloosed, and the whole tale of the calamity and their hunger and disappointment was poured out. Mrs. Vercoe listened with the keenest interest, every now and then raising her two fat hands in amazement, then resting them again on her plump sides. "Oh, my dears! oh, my dears!" she kept gasping. "What owdacious wickedness there do be in this world, to be sure. To think of it! Well, I never did! And if they ain't caught and punished it'll be no more nor less than a crying shame."