Mr. and Mrs. Heathfield, the parents of these girls, were also guests at the Manor, so that the picnic on this last day of Maggie's visit to the rectory was quite a large one. They drove nearly twenty miles to a beautiful place not far from Warwick. There the usual picnic arrangements were made with great satisfaction; dinner was eaten out-of-doors, and presently there was to be a gipsy-tea. This all the girls looked forward to, and Andrew and Jack were wild with delight over the prospect of making the kettle boil. This particular task was given to them, and very proud they were of the trust reposed in them. But now, dinner being over, the older people took shelter from the fierce rays of the sun under the wide-spreading trees, and the young people moved about in groups or in couples. Merry Cardew found herself alone with Maggie Howland. Without intending to do so, she had slightly, very slightly, avoided Maggie during the last day or two; but Maggie now seized her arm and drew her down a shady glade. "Come with me, Merry," she said; "I have a lot I want to say to you." Merry looked at her. "Of course I will come with you, Maggie," she answered. "I want just to get quite away from the others," continued Maggie, "for we shall not meet again until we meet in the autumn at Aylmer House. You don't know, perhaps--do you, Merry--that you owe the great joy of coming to that lovely school to me?" "To you!" said Merry in the utmost amazement. "Yes," replied Maggie in her calmest tone, "to me." "Oh, dear Maggie!" replied Merry, "you surely must be mistaken." "I don't intend to explain myself," said Maggie; "I simply state what is a fact. You owe your school-life to me. It was I who inserted the thin end of the wedge beneath your father's fixed resolution that you were to be educated at home. It was I, in short, who acted the part of the fairy princess and who pulled those silken reins which brought about the desire of your heart." "I don't understand you, Maggie," said Merry in a distressful tone; "but I suppose," she added, "as you say so, it is the case. Only, I ought to tell you that what really and truly happened was this"---- "Oh, I know quite well what really and truly happened," interrupted Maggie. "Let me tell you. I know that there came a certain day when a little girl who calls herself Merry Cardew was very discontented, and I know also that kind Mr. Cardew discovered the discontent of his child. Well, now, who put that discontent into your mind?" "Why, I am afraid it was you," said Merry, turning pale and then red. Maggie laughed. "Why, of course it was," she said; "and you suppose I didn't do it on purpose?" "But, Maggie, you didn't really mean--you couldn't for a minute mean--that I was to be miserable at home if father didn't give his consent?"