as eagerly as any of them to the little songs she sang. They none of them e ver tired of hearing about the orphanage, and sitting in the freshly scrubbed kitchen with the firelight warm on all their young faces while she mended socks and pinafores, Jennet knew a well-being she had never before experienced.
“You miss it, don’t you?” Frankie said once.
“ The orphanage? Yes, I think I do.”
“But you wouldn’t really like to go back—not after living soft with comfortable folk?”
She considered. “No, I suppose not, Frankie. No, of course not. I’ve been very lucky. It’s just that—well, we were all young at Blacker’s and there was noise and quite often fun.”
He propped his elbows on the table and looked at her with a puzzled expression.
“The people who’ve adopted you—are they very old, then?” he asked sympathetically.
“Well, Uncle Homer and Aunt Emily are elderly,” she replied, “but Cousin Julian isn’t. He’s only about thirty, I think, but he was badly injured in a crash and he can’t do very much.”
“ Cousin Julian sounds a bit of a menace,” he said.
“Oh, no, he isn’t really,” she protested quickly. “He thinks o f everything for me—and pays for everything, too.”
“Is he your guardian then?” he asked, frowning.
“No, he’s not my guardian. Aunt Emily is, I suppose. But Cousin Julian came to the orphanage and chose me.”
For two weekends Julian stayed away, and Jennet was able to spend her time with the Thompsons. They accepted her as one of their own, and Frankie’s shy eyes followed her, whatever she did, with unspoken affection. With him she explored Tor Raven and Ramstor and found the Druid hut circles on Lovacombe Down. He seemed to know almost as much as Mrs. Dingle about the legends of Dartmoor and told her many stories as they walked.
With Frankie beside her and spring hotfoot behind, she was no longer afraid of the moor. For that brief spell her happiness was unblemished. The affection which embraced the Thompson home, poor though it was, reached out to her, too, and lifted her to a plane she had always dreamed of in the orphanage. She went home each day wrapped in her new-found security and the first sense of independence she had known in all her sixteen years. She had made friends of her own, she had made a decision for herself, and her refusal to speak of these things at Pennycross was born only of a desire to keep her shining hour to herself.
On her return in the evening, Homer would sometimes look up from his magazine and observe her silently, his head on one side. Once Emily remarked, glancing at the clock:
“You’re late this evening. You mustn’t stop out once it’s dark, dear. You might get lost.”
“No, Aunt Emily, I won’t,” Jennet replied dutifully. But her great eyes shone and even Emily noticed that inner radiance which lit her small thin face . “You’re looking much better,” she said.
Homer spoke in his soft, hesitating voice.
“You have news, or a secret, dear child? Have you told the bees?”
She looked at him, startled. Did her happiness show so much?
“No, Uncle Homer,” she said gently.
“Then do so, my dear, before you tell us. Always tell the bees first, or they will be offended.”
He went back to his magazine, and Jennet slipped out of the room and out of the house, through the orchard to the corner where Homer’s white-painted hives stood in neat rows in the long grass.
She stood for a moment listening to the gentle hum which came from them, then she clasped her hands and said softly:
“Oh, Bees, I have made friends of my own. Oh, Bees, please let me keep my friends for ever, Amen.”
When Julian came the next day it seemed to Jennet that he was more exacting than usual. He took exception to a new sweater Emily had bought for her and told her not to wear it when he was in the house, and he found fault with her accent and her grammar.
“I hope your singing is of a higher standard,” he
“You miss it, don’t you?” Frankie said once.
“ The orphanage? Yes, I think I do.”
“But you wouldn’t really like to go back—not after living soft with comfortable folk?”
She considered. “No, I suppose not, Frankie. No, of course not. I’ve been very lucky. It’s just that—well, we were all young at Blacker’s and there was noise and quite often fun.”
He propped his elbows on the table and looked at her with a puzzled expression.
“The people who’ve adopted you—are they very old, then?” he asked sympathetically.
“Well, Uncle Homer and Aunt Emily are elderly,” she replied, “but Cousin Julian isn’t. He’s only about thirty, I think, but he was badly injured in a crash and he can’t do very much.”
“ Cousin Julian sounds a bit of a menace,” he said.
“Oh, no, he isn’t really,” she protested quickly. “He thinks o f everything for me—and pays for everything, too.”
“Is he your guardian then?” he asked, frowning.
“No, he’s not my guardian. Aunt Emily is, I suppose. But Cousin Julian came to the orphanage and chose me.”
For two weekends Julian stayed away, and Jennet was able to spend her time with the Thompsons. They accepted her as one of their own, and Frankie’s shy eyes followed her, whatever she did, with unspoken affection. With him she explored Tor Raven and Ramstor and found the Druid hut circles on Lovacombe Down. He seemed to know almost as much as Mrs. Dingle about the legends of Dartmoor and told her many stories as they walked.
With Frankie beside her and spring hotfoot behind, she was no longer afraid of the moor. For that brief spell her happiness was unblemished. The affection which embraced the Thompson home, poor though it was, reached out to her, too, and lifted her to a plane she had always dreamed of in the orphanage. She went home each day wrapped in her new-found security and the first sense of independence she had known in all her sixteen years. She had made friends of her own, she had made a decision for herself, and her refusal to speak of these things at Pennycross was born only of a desire to keep her shining hour to herself.
On her return in the evening, Homer would sometimes look up from his magazine and observe her silently, his head on one side. Once Emily remarked, glancing at the clock:
“You’re late this evening. You mustn’t stop out once it’s dark, dear. You might get lost.”
“No, Aunt Emily, I won’t,” Jennet replied dutifully. But her great eyes shone and even Emily noticed that inner radiance which lit her small thin face . “You’re looking much better,” she said.
Homer spoke in his soft, hesitating voice.
“You have news, or a secret, dear child? Have you told the bees?”
She looked at him, startled. Did her happiness show so much?
“No, Uncle Homer,” she said gently.
“Then do so, my dear, before you tell us. Always tell the bees first, or they will be offended.”
He went back to his magazine, and Jennet slipped out of the room and out of the house, through the orchard to the corner where Homer’s white-painted hives stood in neat rows in the long grass.
She stood for a moment listening to the gentle hum which came from them, then she clasped her hands and said softly:
“Oh, Bees, I have made friends of my own. Oh, Bees, please let me keep my friends for ever, Amen.”
When Julian came the next day it seemed to Jennet that he was more exacting than usual. He took exception to a new sweater Emily had bought for her and told her not to wear it when he was in the house, and he found fault with her accent and her grammar.
“I hope your singing is of a higher standard,” he