The Annam Jewel by Patricia Wentworth Page B

Peter.”
    â€œWhat does it matter what they say? No, you’re not to cry. Your name is Rose Ellen Waring. Have you got that?”
    Rose Ellen nodded. They began to walk again.
    â€œI didn’t like Ellen Smiff. I hated Ellen Smiff.”
    â€œYou’re a first-class little mug,” said Peter cheerfully.
    â€œI don’t want my name to be Smiff,” said Rose Ellen. “Ethel Dawkins said it would have to be Smiff f’r ever and ever unless I got married, and she said nobody wouldn’t ever want to marry me,” She ended with a piteous little sniff, and Peter’s heart was melted within him.
    â€œI’ll marry you,” he declared in a spirit of true self-sacrifice. “That is, I’ll marry you if you buck up and don’t cry.”
    Rose Ellen winked very hard and turned her adoring gaze upon Peter.
    â€œAnd then,” she said, “would my name be really Waring? Truly, and really, and f’r ever and ever?”
    â€œOf course it would.”
    The path wound among the water-meadows, and presently, finding a little valley, climbed with it to a wood where beeches spread their leafless branches over drifts of last year’s leaves.
    Rose Ellen had begun to flag. It came home to Peter that they could not go much farther.
    â€œAre you tired?” he said.
    Rose Ellen walked a little faster. She said, “No!” rather quickly, and then added in a very small voice, “Augustabel is a little bit tired.”
    â€œAll right,” said Peter, “so am I.”
    They struck off to the left and found a hollow full of dry leaves. A few very long-stalked primroses grew here and there. Rose Ellen sat down by a clump of primroses and rocked Augustabel. Every now and then she just touched one of the flowers with the tips of her fingers.
    They spent the greater part of the day in the wood. The sun shone, and the air was mild. Not a soul came near them. Rose Ellen was very happy.

CHAPTER VII
    It was midday on Monday when Mrs. Spottiswoode received a wire from Matthew Waring:
    Little girl disappeared from orphanage. Is Peter with you? Please wire at once .
    She was too much upset to do anything at once except sob, and gasp, and dab her eyes, and say over and over again: “I knew he was too young to travel alone. I told you so, and you wouldn’t listen to me, Charlotte.”
    It was Charlotte who wrote the answer:
    Peter left here Saturday morning to go to yon .
    By Monday evening a description of Peter and Rose Ellen had been telegraphed to police stations all over the country, and Matthew Waring’s temper was hourly becoming worse.
    Peter and Rose Ellen had spent the night in the beech wood to which they had returned after a pleasant afternoon excursion, in the course of which Peter obtained milk in a bottle and some hard-boiled eggs from a farm; he explained quite truthfully that he was camping out.
    The night was fine and warm. Peter heaped beech leaves over them both, and they slept like birds in a nest. But the morning dawned red.
    â€œWhere are we going?” said Rose Ellen when they had breakfasted.
    Peter didn’t know; that was the trouble—he didn’t know at all. He led the way back to the path, and they followed it until it came out upon a heathery upland covered with sheep tracks. It was a wide place, and empty. They walked on and saw no house.
    They sat down amongst the heather, ate their midday meal, and afterwards Rose Ellen fell asleep, curled up like a kitten, with Augustabel in her arms. Peter did not mean to sleep, but a drowsiness came over him. When at last he woke the sunshine was gone. He waked Rose Ellen, and they took the road again. The sky was all clouds, and a small, cold wind blew across their path. The way seemed very long.
    â€œAre you cold, Rose Ellen?” said Peter.
    Rose Ellen shivered, and shook her head.
    â€œHonest injun?”
    Rose Ellen hesitated, and looked away.
    â€œAugustabel is