"But I do want it very specially. Will you advance it to me just this once, dad?" "I am not to know why you want it?" "No, dad darling, you are not to know." Mr. Cardew considered for a minute. "I hope you are not going to be a really extravagant woman, Merry," he said. "To tell the truth, I hate extravagance, although I equally hate stinginess. You will have no lack of money, child, but money is a great and wonderful gift and ought to be used to the best of best advantages. It ought never to be wasted, for there are so many people who haven't half enough, and those who are rich, my child, ought to help those who are not rich." "Yes, darling father," said Merry; "and that is what I should so awfully like to do." "Well, I think you have the root of the matter in you," said Mr. Cardew, "and I, for one, am the last person to pry on my child. Does Cicely also want her money in advance?" "Oh no, no! I want it for a very special reason." "Very well, my little girl. Come to me in the study to-night before you go to bed, and you shall have your money." "In sovereigns, please, father?" "Yes, child, in sovereigns." "Thank you ever so much, darling." During the rest of the drive there was no girl happier than Merry Cardew. Mr. Cardew looked at her once or twice, and wondered what all this meant. But he was not going to question her. When they got home he took her away to his study, and, opening a drawer, took out ten sovereigns. "I may as well tell you," he said as he put them into her hand, "that when you go to school I shall raise your pocket-money allowance to fifteen pounds a quarter. That is quite as large a sum as a girl of your age ought to have in the year. I do this because I well understand that at Mrs. Ward's school there will be special opportunities for you to act in a philanthropic manner." "Oh, thank you, thank you, father!" said Merry. CHAPTER XII. SHEPHERD'S BUSH. While Merry was in a state of high rejoicing at this simple means of helping her friend, Maggie Howland herself was not having quite such a good time. She had been much relieved by her conversation with Merry, but shortly after the picnic-tea Aneta had come up to her. "Would you like to walk with me," said Aneta, "as far as the giant oak? It isn't a great distance from here, and I'll not keep you long." "Certainly I will come with you, Aneta," said Maggie; but she felt uncomfortable, and wondered what it meant. The two girls set off together. They made a contrast which must have been discernible to the eyes of all those who saw them: Aneta the very essence of elegance; Maggie spotlessly neat, but, compared to her companion, downright plain. Aneta was tall and slim; Maggie was short. Nevertheless, her figure was her good point, and she made the most of it by having perfectly fitting clothes. This very fact, however, took somewhat from her appearance, and gave her the look of a grown-up girl, whereas she was still only a child.