"If one did all that needs doing about a house," she said, excusingly to herself, "one would have no time for anything else, and I do want to write. If I could sell my stories I could help father tremendously, and that is far more important than dusting and cooking, and looking after the children. Faith can do that, she has no taste for writing. When lessons begin I shall have less time than ever for it, so I really must do all I can now." And fired with enthusiasm and importance, she shut herself up more and more in her attic, and Faith was left to look after her mother, and the children, and the house, pretty much as she was before; and if the muddle did not grow greater, it certainly did not grow less under Audrey's rule.

"If you want to keep this house tidy you must always be tidying it," she grumbled, and to be always tidying it was certainly the last thing she wished or intended. So, as long as her own attic was neat and fragrant, she closed her eyes to the rest and was, apparently, content to let things go on as she found them.

"Audrey, will you sit with mother this evening while I go to church?" Faith opened her sister's door nervously, and the face which appeared round it was decidedly apologetic. She was always afraid that she might be interrupting Audrey at a critical point in the story she was writing, and she generally was too.

This May Sunday was an exception though. Audrey did not write stories on Sundays, she only thought about them. Occasionally she wrote a letter to her granny, or to a school friend. She was thinking of a story now, when Faith disturbed her, a very sentimental one, as she sat by her bedroom window and gazed at the road winding up to the moor. 'He'—the lover—was striding along it with set jaws and haggard eyes, while 'she'—the heroine—sat at just such a window as Audrey's own, and gazed after him through tear-filled eyes. And Audrey was just trying to decide whether 'she' should wave a relenting handkerchief and call him back, or watch him depart for ever and die of a broken heart, when Faith popped her head in.

"Very well," she said, and sighed.

"And will you get her a glass of milk at seven? She must not have it later or she will have indigestion all night——"

"Oh, I know all about that, of course." Faith so often forgot that she, Audrey, was the eldest,—and mistress of the house for the time.

"And will you read to her——"

"Oh there is no need to do that, mother and I can always find plenty to talk about, we have so many tastes alike——"

"She likes to have the Evening Service read to her, and the hymns and the lessons. The numbers of the hymns are on a slip of paper on the mantelpiece. I will go now and see that Tom and Debby are getting ready."

"All right." It never occurred to Audrey to go and see to them for Faith, while she got herself ready.

"Oh, and Audrey, Joan is in bed, but will you go in and look at her after I have gone to see that she is covered up? she throws off——"

"Oh yes, of course, I'll attend to everything. Don't worry so."

"Thank you. I will see to the supper when I come back. Mary is out to-night."

"Oh, is she! What a bother. Never mind, I'll look after things and sit with mother. I want to talk to her about a story I am going to write."

"Oh, Audrey, how lovely!" Faith gazed at her sister with eyes full of wistful admiration. "I wish I could hear about it too."

"Oh, you wouldn't understand." Nevertheless, Audrey was very well pleased with her sister's appreciation.

"But I could listen, and try to. Will you have done before I come home?"

"Oh yes, of course."

Tom began to shout from down below and Faith started off at a run. "He can't find his hat and I promised to help him look for it," she added hastily.

"Faith," Audrey called after her, "don't say anything to anybody else about my story," she added in a lower tone as she leaned over the stairs. "Don't tell father, or the children, or—or Mary. I don't want anyone to know anything about it until I have sold some—at least, only mother and you."

Faith nodded back brightly, immensely pleased at being trusted with the mighty secret. She was very proud of Audrey and thought her cleverness quite remarkable.

Mrs. Carlyle was proud of her daughter too, and pleased that, at any rate, one of her children inherited her talent for writing. At least her taste—she hoped that in time it would prove a talent. And for nearly an hour she patiently listened and advised.

"You must not be too sure of yourself yet, dear," she said at last, a somewhat weary note in her voice. "You must be content to read and practise for a long time yet——"

"But mother, I am sure I could write a story as good as one I read a few days ago—there was simply nothing in it."

"But Audrey, you surely would not be content to write a story only as good as a very poor one! Your aim should be to write one better than a very good one."

"To begin with, mother! I couldn't do that to begin with—and oh, I do want to see one in print!"

Mrs. Carlyle sighed. She was very tired. "I thought you wanted my advice, dear," she said gently. "Now, will you read me the Psalms, please. My books have been waiting such a long time for you to begin. They will be home from church before we have read the lessons, I am afraid. Oh, I am afraid I must trouble you to get me my glass of milk now, before we begin. I shall not be able to take it if I leave it any later. I wonder if Joan is all right? I have not heard her call, have you?"

Audrey jumped up hurriedly and ran into the next room.

Baby Joan was asleep, but with the bed-clothes kicked back and all her little body exposed to the night breeze from the open window.

"Oh dear," sighed Audrey impatiently, "I think children do things on purpose to annoy one." She was cross because she was really alarmed. Joan was very cold, she must have been lying uncovered for nearly an hour. "She really deserved a whipping." Audrey covered the little body up warmly and hurried back to her mother's room with her tale of woe. She had quite forgotten the glass of milk.

Mrs. Carlyle did not grow irritable as she listened, though she had every reason to be, but she was greatly worried. "I should have reminded you to go in and see that she was all right," she said, full of self-reproach. "Isn't it dreadful to think that if Faith goes out we can none of us be trusted to take care of anything properly!" She did not again remind Audrey of the glass of milk.

Audrey did not relish the reproach. She was always a little sore about Faith's pre-eminence in the house. "You see it isn't my work," she said shortly, "if it had been I expect I should not have forgotten. It is frightfully hard to remember other people's little odds and ends of work when they happen to be out."

"Did not Faith ask you to look after baby while she was away?"

"Yes—but——"

"Then it was your work, Audrey."

"Oh, well, I am very sorry. I quite forgot, but I expect Joan will be all right. Now I will read to you, mother. Which hymn would you like?"

Mrs. Carlyle's mind at that moment was not in tune for any reading. She was troubled about her baby girl, and almost more troubled about her big girl. Her heart was heavy, her head ached, she felt tired too, and faint.

Audrey also was out of humour with herself and everything. She was disappointed in her mother's advice about her writing. She was angry with herself for failing in her duty, she was nervous about Joan, and over and above all she was disappointed in her Sunday. It did not seem like a Sunday—the happy beautiful day that comes bringing sunshine to the heart and sweetness and peace to the home, giving to all strength and courage to take up the burden of daily work again, and go singing on one's way.

Audrey had been late for prayers in the morning, and Debby had annoyed her on her way to church by appearing with a hole in her stocking; while at dinnertime she had been so annoyed by the sight of finger-marks on her tumbler, that she had neither given thanks for her food nor returned them.

The afternoon which she had longed to give up to reading she had had to devote to the Sunday School. She did not like children, and she detested teaching, "but, of course, if you very much dislike a thing you are bound to have it thrust on you, and if you love a thing very much, well, that is quite enough to prevent your being able to have it." She cried bitterly in the solitude of her own room. She went to the school and she took her class, but neither pupils nor teacher benefited by the lessons. To the children she was cold and unsympathetic. She took no interest in them or their doings; and they in their turn did not like her. And, more than that, they judged other teachers by her.

"If that's what Sunday School teachers is like, you don't catch me coming again," declared Millie Pope, who had been coaxed by a friend into coming for the first time. "If being good makes you as sharp and sour as she is—well, I don't want to be good."

Audrey had not heard the remarks that were made, but she felt that she had been a failure, and her heart was heavy. She was vexed and sorry, and annoyed with herself and everything, for she knew that she had not done her best, that she had failed in her duty. And she knew as well as though they had told her that the children had not liked her.

Oh, it had been a failure, that May Sunday. The birds had sung their blithest, the hedges were white with hawthorn, the air sweet with the scent of flowers, the sun had shone all day—and yet it had been a grey Sunday, begun badly, continued badly, ending badly—because the right spirit was lacking.

"Would you like me to read to you now, mother?" she asked again, but doubtfully. Something told her that the time was past, that the sweet calm pleasure was not to be caught now. And before Mrs. Carlyle could answer her, footsteps sounded in the garden, and Faith, followed by Debby and Tom, came rushing up the stairs.

"Oh, we have had such a lovely time," but Faith catching sight of her mother's wan face, stopped abruptly. "Aren't you feeling so well, mummy? —are you faint? Have you had anything since we have been gone?"

Audrey sprang up with a cry of dismay and flew from the room. "It is too late now, dear," said the invalid feebly, but Audrey did not hear her.

"It is too late now," called Faith, rushing after her. "I will make her some Benger——" Their footsteps and voices died away.

"Oh, what a pity!" sighed Deborah, "we've got such a lot to tell, and we wanted you to be well enough to listen, mother."

"We've had quite an advencher," cried Tom, his eyes wide with excitement, "and father asked them to supper——"

"But you mustn't tell," interrupted Debby reprovingly, "not till Faith comes. It wouldn't be fair—and Audrey too, 'cause it's Audrey that knows them."

Mrs. Carlyle beckoned Debby to her side. "Run down, darling, and tell Faith not to make me any Benger, it takes so long, and I don't want her to stay now. I will have some jelly instead, and a slice of bread. Tell her to come quickly, and Audrey too. I am longing to hear about your 'advencher.'"

Mrs. Carlyle kissed her little daughter very tenderly. She loved to have them come to her with all their little joys and woes. It was one of the chief pleasures of her slowly returning health.

In a very short time Debby came racing back again, a plate in her hand with a slice of bread on it. "It's all right," she cried triumphantly, "it hasn't fell'd, I put my thumb on it so's it shouldn't!"

Mrs. Carlyle smiled to herself. "I hope it was a nice clean thumb," she said gently. "Another time, dear, it will be better to walk more slowly, for you should never put your finger on another person's food."

"Oh!" Debby looked disappointed. "But it was such a safe way, mummy, it never fell'd once. Audrey and Faith were so slow. Faith was dusting a tray and Audrey was turning out all the drawers looking for a tray-cloth to put on it, and—and I couldn't wait. I wanted you to hear all about who we've seen—oh, here they are at last!"

They had evidently been successful in finding a cloth of some kind, for Audrey came in carrying a neatly laid tray, with a plate of jelly on it, a spoon, and a table-napkin; while Faith walked behind, her face beaming with triumph.

"Doesn't that look tempting, mother?"

"Indeed it does! and what a luxury to have the table-napkin remembered. Is that Audrey's doing?"

"Yes—and oh, Audrey, I've been longing all this time to tell you. What do you think—we've met some friends of yours. There were strangers in church—I didn't know them, but father and Debby and Tom did—at least they recognised them, and after service was over they were standing about in the churchyard as if they were looking for someone—and it was you! And who do you think they were?"

Audrey groaned. "What do you mean?" she asked irritably. "Who was me? and who was looking for what? and how should I know who anyone was if you don't explain? Can't you tell all about it so that anyone can understand you?"

Faith put a restraint upon herself and began again. "I mean it was you that the strangers were looking for. They are called Vivian—they are the grandchildren of Mr. Vivian at Abbot's Field. You know, mummy," turning to her mother. "They said they travelled with Audrey the day she came home. Why didn't you tell us, Audrey?"

"Perhaps Audrey did not know who they were," suggested Mrs. Carlyle gently, seeing that Audrey looked confused and remained silent.

Audrey grew red and uncomfortable, but made no reply.

"They said they saw daddy and me and Tom on the platform," burst in Debby, breaking an awkward pause. "They didn't know he was the vicar, but they came over to try and see you at church, and then they saw daddy, and then they looked round and saw me and Tom, and Faith—of course they didn't know Faith, but they guessed she was another of us because of her red hair. And they waited until we came out of church to speak to us—they wanted to inquire for Audrey."

"And oh, they are so nice, mother dear," chimed in Faith excitedly. "You will love them. They are coming here to see you."

"I am so glad, dear, it will be nice for you to have companions. Did you not know who they were, Audrey, and where they were going to stay?"

Audrey nodded. She was looking embarrassed, troubled and vexed. "Yes, mother, at least, they said they were going to stay with a Mr. Vivian, but—but I did not know him—and I—I didn't know them——"

"Did you like them, dear?"

"Yes, but I only saw them for a little while, of course. We did not travel all the way together. They weren't with me when daddy met me." She spoke quickly, hurrying out a jumble of excuses.

"They are so jolly and friendly one could not help liking them," cried Faith enthusiastically.

"Daddy asked them to come back with us to supper," chimed in Tom, "and they did wish they could, but they had to walk the three miles home and their mother would be anxious about them if they were late."

"Their mother! Was their mother with them, Audrey, when you travelled together?"

"Yes."

"Oh, what must she think of us," cried poor Mrs. Carlyle, really distressed. "Such near neighbours, and to have taken no notice of them all these weeks. We knew her husband quite well before he married——"

"But they are coming to see us, mummy," cried Debby consolingly. "They are coming one day very soon. They said so."

Audrey nearly groaned. She thought of the ragged garden, the shabby house; the ill-cooked, untidily served meals—and she felt she could have cried. "Why couldn't they have stayed at home? Why must they come tearing over to Moor End? and oh, what must they think of her for never having mentioned them to her people, after their kindness and friendliness too, in inviting her over to see them! Oh dear, how wrong everything in this world did go!"

"Are you not pleased, Audrey? Don't you want to see them again?" Mrs. Carlyle inquired anxiously.

"Oh, yes—oh, yes, mother, I should like to see them if—if we had a nice place to ask them to, but they must be rich, they probably have everything, and 'The Orchard' is such a big house.——"

"You—you were not ashamed of us—of your home, were you, Audrey?" The words and the tone went to Audrey's heart like a knife twisted in a wound. She would have given all she possessed to be able to say 'no' with all her heart and soul. But she could not. Nor could she tell a lie. So she stood there, silent and ashamed, and grieved to her heart by the knowledge of the pain she was inflicting.

No one spoke to break the horrible silence which fell on the room. With all their pleasure gone, Faith and the little ones crept quietly away, and, after a moment, Audrey, not knowing what else to do, turned and followed them. She longed for some word, some sign from her mother, but none came. It was too soon to ask for her forgiveness yet. It was too much to ask, for it would be only asking for comfort for herself, it would not lessen the pain she had given to others. Nothing could do that, nothing, at least, but time, and never-ceasing effort on her part.

With a heart as heavy as lead, she crept slowly down the stairs. In the hall Faith met her, Faith with eyes sparkling with an anger Audrey had never seen in them before.

"Oh, how could you!" she cried, her voice trembling with indignation, "how could you be so cruel! And why are you ashamed of us, because we are poor? because we are shabby? and untidy? If it is because we are untidy, why don't you show us how to do better, why don't you help? If it is because we are poor, and everything is shabby—it isn't our fault. We would have everything fresh and beautiful if we could. I don't mind, for myself, what you say or think—but oh, Audrey, how could you hurt mother so; how could you; how could you?"

The anger died suddenly out of Faith's eyes, washed away by tears.

"I am so awfully, awfully sorry," said Audrey, the pain in her heart sounding in her voice.

"But you—you didn't mean it!" Faith asked, but in more gentle tone. "You didn't mean it?"

"I—I did," stammered Audrey, with quivering lip, "but—I don't now. I myself am the only thing I am ashamed of now," and bursting into tears she flew upstairs again and shut herself in her attic.



CHAPTER VII.

Almost before her eyes were open the next morning, Audrey felt as though some big black weight lay upon her, as though something very dreadful had happened. And then gradually sleep cleared from her brain, and recollection came back.

She had been petty, mean, and everyone knew it, everyone must despise her. She had hurt her own mother, she had hurt them all. She had shown them that she was ashamed of them—and why? Not because they had done anything wrong, or despicable, but because they were poor and were obliged to live in a shabby house, shabbily furnished!

"Oh, I can never live it down," she thought miserably. "I can never make them forget, and think well of me again!" She buried her face in her pillow and groaned aloud. She wished wildly for all sort of impossible things to happen, that she could put miles and miles, and oceans and continents between herself and everybody—or that she could wipe out all recollection of her foolishness from everyone's mind, or never, never have to meet the Vivians again.

There is no way, though, of blotting out in a moment our wrongdoing, our foolishness, our mistakes. They cannot be wiped off, as a sum off a slate, nor the results, nor the memory of them. There is nothing to be done but to face the consequences bravely, to live them down hour by hour; so, profiting by the lesson thus learnt, that in time those about us will find it hard to believe that we ever were so foolish, or wicked. Through genuine repentance and sorrow only can we expiate our faults, and Audrey had sense enough to know this.

"I have just got to live through it," she sighed miserably, "but oh, I wish I hadn't hurt mother so."

As she was passing her mother's bedroom door on her way downstairs, a sudden impulse made her knock.

"Come in," said the sweet kind voice; but as she turned the handle Audrey's courage nearly failed her. "Oh, it's nothing," she began, and was turning away when fortunately the thought came to her—how glad she would be after, if she were brave now, and did what she came in to do. "It will be a beginning," she told herself feverishly, "I shall be much happier after," and allowing herself no more time for thought, she marched bravely in and up to the bed.

"Mother," she said, and the tears rushed to her eyes again. "I want you to try to forget—please, please. It was all a mistake. I was all—all wrong. I am so sorry."

"My dear, I know, I understand." Her mother threw her arms round her, and drew her gently down beside her. "I know how these things happen, if we are not always loyal in thought and in deed. I have failed often, Audrey dear, so I understand. But we will both forget, darling." And then Audrey broke down entirely. "Mother, I can never forget, I can never forgive myself, but I will try never to be so mean again, never. I am going to begin to-day to do better. I really mean to."

"We all will, we will begin by trying to understand each other, shall we? Try to be more patient, and to see how things seem to others. Don't you think a good motto for us all would be 'others first.'"

"I don't think Faith needs that motto, mother," said Audrey wistfully, which was a great admission for her, and the first step on the new road she meant to tread.

"Oh yes, she does, dear. We all do, some more, some less."

"Well, I am one who needs it very much more," and Audrey smiled ruefully as she raised herself. "Now I am going down to see what I can do to help. I will begin by laying her breakfast-tray as nicely and temptingly as ever I can," she thought, as she hurried away. She felt so lighthearted she wanted to do something for everyone, to make all feel as happy as she did herself. But alas, alas! when she got downstairs her happiness received a check. Joan was ill.

In the kitchen Audrey found Faith seated by the kitchen fire with Joan upon her lap. Joan drowsy and feverish, and fretful. Faith anxious and pale.

"I believe she is ill," said Faith, looking up at her with eyes full of alarm, "she has been so restless all night. I wonder what can be the matter. I have been so careful about her food, and I don't see how she can have got a cold."

Joan turned uneasily, and began to whimper, Mary came over and looked anxiously at the flushed baby face. "She's feverish, Miss Faith, she's got a cold somehow. She is so hot, and it seems to hurt her to move."

With a swift shock of fear Audrey remembered what had happened the previous evening—the little thinly-clad body lying outside the bed-clothes, exposed to the draught from the open window. She coloured guiltily, but for a moment she hesitated to speak. It was so dreadful to have to heap more blame upon herself—to have to make everyone think more hardly of her, just when she had begun to try to make them think better. But once again she conquered herself, and so took another step, and a long one, along the new but stony road she had set out to tread.

Faith looked grave as she listened. She adored her baby sister, and she found it hard not to blame Audrey. "I ought not to have gone away," she began irritably, but stopped, as it struck her what a self-righteous and conceited thing it was that she was saying. "I had better put her back to bed again, I expect," she concluded, more gently.

"I suppose so," agreed Audrey doubtfully. She did not in the least know what to do in a case of illness. Mary came to the rescue. Mary had lots of brothers and sisters at home, and had had a good deal of experience.

"I shouldn't, miss," she said, "in this summer weather it is so hard to keep them covered up, and restless as Miss Joan is, she wouldn't have the bedclothes over her more'n a minute at a time. I'd give her a nice deep hot bath here by the fire, and then wrap her up in a big shawl, and keep her by the fire. It'll be hot for anybody that's holding her, but I believe it'll drive the chill out of her quicker than anything."

"I'll do anything to get her well again," said Faith eagerly. So a bath was made ready—all the water that was needed for breakfast was used for it, but that was a trifling matter, and Mary's advice was followed to the letter.

"Now I'll get her some hot milk," said Mary, as she arranged the last wrap around the little patient, and put the cookery book under Faith's feet for a footstool.

"Oh!" gasped Faith, "don't make up too big a fire, Mary, or I shall really explode!"

Audrey, ashamed and sorry, moved about unobtrusively trying to do what she could; but it was mortifying to her to find how little she could do. At last it occurred to her to go upstairs and see if Tom and Debby wanted any help in the fastening of strings and buttons, and the brushing of hair.

"Oh dear," she sighed, "you have only one button left on your frock, Debby, and the string of your apron is broken. Can't you put on another?"

"They've all only got one string, you will find a safety pin somewhere, I have it pinned gen'rally."

"Oh! well, I will mend them for you when I've got time."

"Faith said she would when she'd got time, but when she'd got time she hadn't got any tape, and when we remembered to buy some tape we couldn't find a bodkin. Where does one buy bodkins, Audrey?"

"I don't know, but I have two in my work-box. I will put in the tapes for you. Now run down while I turn out the beds. Oh no, come here," as the pair went dashing away, "come and fold up your nightgowns, you should never leave them lying on the floor like that. Who do you think is going to fold them for you? I believe you never think of the trouble you give."

Tom and Debby went back patiently, and picking up their offending garments, struggled with them valiantly. But, however careful they were, it seemed as though one sleeve would hang out, or the folds would go crooked, simply for the purpose of aggravating two impatient little people.

"I wish we didn't have sleeves," sighed Deborah.

"Let's cut them off," cried Tom, and in a spirit of mischief, picked up a pair of scissors and pretended to cut the sleeve.

He was only pretending, but Audrey misunderstood, and, with a sharp slap on the hands, sent the scissors skimming across the floor.

The unexpectedness of the blow, the pain, and the indignity, roused Tom to real anger, and for a few moments there was an ugly scene. Debby cried, Tom raged, and Audrey scolded. "You can fold the old thing yourself," cried Tom, flinging out of the room. Audrey dragged him back.

"I shall not, you shall do it yourself if you have to stay here all day. I shall speak to father about your behaviour, and I do think you might have tried to behave decently and not have made such a noise when Joan is ill, and we want her to sleep. You think of no one but yourselves—you two."

"Joan ill! You might have told us before. How were we to know? and—and you were making more noise than anybody, and—and it was all your fault in the beginning," cried Tom. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself Audrey, you are the eldest, and—and you knew Joan was ill."

Debby was less angry, and more concerned. "Where is Joan?" she asked anxiously. "Is she in bed?"

"She is in the kitchen by the fire, so don't go there making a noise too. You had better play in the garden, and do be as quiet as you can."

"I am going to see mother first," retorted Debby, "we always do when we are dressed. Mummy likes us to. And we don't make a noise if we know we mustn't. If you had only told us Joan was ill——"

But Audrey was already half-way down the stairs, on her way to the kitchen. "Children are such worries," she sighed. "Now I will get mother's breakfast."

In the kitchen she found Faith sitting patiently by the fire, she was scarlet with the heat, and very weary, but there was a look of relief in her eyes. "She is sleeping so comfortably," she whispered. "That shows that she is in less pain, doesn't it?"

"I should think so. You look awfully hot."

"Hot! I am roasting, I feel quite faint every now and then, but I don't mind anything if it is doing Joan good."

"Can't you put her down? Make her up a bed on a chair or something, can't you?"

"No. She rouses at once if I try to put her out of my arms. I would rather hold her. It doesn't matter about being hot. I shall cool down again some day."

Audrey picked up a tray. "I am going to get mother's breakfast," she announced. "I want to make it look nice. Mary, can you wipe this tray for me, it has something sticky on it."

Mary put down her saucepan of milk and went away with the tray in her hand. "I s'pose it must have touched something," she said cheerfully.

"Yes, evidently—and you couldn't have washed it properly. It has made my hands sticky too." It really was aggravating, for she had only just washed them. "Where can I find a clean tray-cloth, Mary?"

"In the drawer of the press, miss."

Audrey's face wore an expression of deep disdain as she turned over the collection of things in the untidy drawer. "I can't see anything fit to use," she said irritably. "Where are the clean ones kept, Mary?"

"We have only two, miss, one is in the wash, the other you've got in your hand. It is a bit crumpled, I am afraid."

"If we've got so few, it's a pity not to take more care of those we have," grumbled Audrey, "this really is not fit to use, but I suppose I must." When she began to collect the china, the cup, as usual, had a smear on it, and the plate was not clean. "I had better wash it all, I suppose, as usual!" she thought impatiently, and banged open the tea-towel drawer with such force that Joan started out of her sleep.

"I'd have got the tray ready, if you'd left it, Miss Audrey," said Mary shortly.

"I wanted to make it look nice and tempting."

Poor Faith grew to look harassed and miserable. Whatever happened, she did not want a collision between Audrey and Mary. Mary was rough, and not thorough, but she was good-tempered, hard-working, and ready to turn her hand to anything.

Mr. Carlyle came into the kitchen. "Is breakfast nearly ready?" he asked, "it is nine o'clock, and I have a full day before me—why, Baby! what is the matter?" He stood looking down at his two flushed daughters, while Faith explained. "But I think she is better," she concluded eagerly, "look, daddy, she is smiling at you! If we are careful all day, I daresay she will be well to-morrow."

"And do you intend to sit by that fire all day with her! Why, you will be a cinder."

Faith laughed, "I am rather hot, but it has done her good, I am sure—at least the hot bath and the heat has. Mary thought of it, wasn't it clever of her?"

"I will take her presently, Miss Faith, while you have your breakfast," said Mary, much gratified by the little compliment.

Mr. Carlyle went over to where Audrey stood arranging a few flowers on her mother's tray. "How dainty!" he said approvingly, "your mother will appreciate that, dear. She loves pretty, dainty things about her. I am going over to Abbot's Field to-day," he added, "and I thought I would call on Mrs. Vivian, and the old gentleman. Will you come with me, to represent your mother? I think it would be rather pleasant, don't you?"

Audrey coloured with embarrassment. To her the prospect did not seem at all pleasant. "I—I am afraid I can't, father. I have a lot to do at home."

Her mind was full of plans for tidying house and garden, and making everything more presentable. It was a big undertaking, she knew, but she was full of zeal.

Her father looked disappointed. "Oh well, then, I must go alone. I thought you would like to meet the young people again—and I think they still expect you—they were so anxious to see you. But never mind, I will tell them that you are busy, but are hoping to see them over here one day very soon. I had better fix a day; will Thursday do?"

"Thursday! so soon!" The suggestion filled her with dismay, but she kept her dismay to herself. "Yes, father, I think so," she said feebly, and lifting up the tray went slowly with it to her mother's room. Debby was sitting on the bed, chattering quite happily, all the temper forgotten.

"Oh, how pretty," she cried, as she caught sight of the breakfast tray.

"Oh, how tempting," said Mrs. Carlyle, smiling her appreciation, "the sight of it gives me quite an appetite."

"Do you always do trays like that?" asked Tom, "or is it a birthday?"

"Yes, always. No, it is not a birthday. It is the right way, that's all."

"When I am ill in bed, will you bring up my breakfast to me on a tray with a white cloth, and a flower, and a dear little dainty teapot of my own?" asked Debby eagerly.

"Yes," laughed Audrey, "but don't try to be ill on purpose."

"I think I will wait until the new governess comes," said Debby gravely. She could not endure the thought of lessons, and of being shut up for ever so many hours a day.

As soon as breakfast was over Audrey stepped out at the front door, and surveyed the garden. "It is the first thing they will see," she thought despondingly, as, with the expected guests in her mind, she looked from the ragged grass to the unswept path, and thence to the untrimmed bushes. "I wish I could get Job Toms to cut the grass. I must ask father to order him to."

Faith on her way back to the kitchen and Joan, saw Audrey in the garden and joined her. "I wish we had flower beds on either side of the path," said Audrey, "they would look so pretty, but I suppose the children would always walk on them."

"They wouldn't if they were told not to," declared Faith, always ready to champion the little imps. "What a jolly idea, Audrey. If Joan wasn't ill I'd come out this minute and begin to make them. It wouldn't take very long."

"Oh yes, it would, to make them properly. We ought to have a real gardener to do it, and then we should want dozens of bedding plants, we should have to have something to start with. But all that would cost very nearly a sovereign, I expect."

"I hadn't thought of having bedding plants," said Faith, disappointedly. "Of course we couldn't spend money on plants. I was thinking of roots, and seeds, and cuttings. The people in the village would gladly give us a lot. Mrs. Pope offered me young sunflower seedlings only a week or two ago, and Miss Babbs is always offering me phloxes, and wallflowers, and things. We could soon fill up the beds, I am sure, and with things that would come up year after year by themselves. Let's each make a bed for ourselves, shall we, Audrey, and each do our own in our own way. It would make the garden look ever so much nicer."

"I couldn't, and if I can't, you can't, at least you oughtn't to. It would look too silly to have a bed on only one side. The garden would look like a pig with one ear."

"It would be a very pretty pig," laughed Faith, "at least its one ear would."

"Anyhow, we couldn't get it done by Thursday, and what I wanted was to try and get the place looking nicer by the time the Vivians come. Now I am going in to see if I can do anything to the drawing-room."

"Oh!" Faith's face grew grave. "Do you think we need use the drawing-room? Won't the dining-room do? You see we have taken some of the nicest things from there for mother's room—to make that as nice as possible. The curtains, and the carpet."

"Whatever are we going to do!" cried Audrey in genuine dismay. "It really is too dreadful. Father oughtn't to ask people here if we haven't a room fit to ask them into. You see we must use the drawing-room."

"What for?"

"Why, for tea, of course, for one thing."

"Oh!" cried Faith, "don't let's have a dotted-around-the-room tea! The children make such a mess with their crumbs, they can't help it, and they are sure to upset their cups, and drop their plates—and we shall be in one big worry all the time. They hate those teas, and so do I! Let's have a nice comfortable one in the dining-room, and sit up to table."

"And spend all the rest of the time there too, I suppose?" sarcastically.

Faith looked pained. "Well, I don't suppose they would mind very much if we did, as long as we were all jolly and happy. They seemed so kind and friendly, and not a bit stuck up."

"Oh," cried Audrey impatiently, "you seem to think anything will do, as long as you are happy and jolly. You don't realise what other people are accustomed to, and expect."

"I think I am glad I don't," said Faith gravely, "it only seems to worry one."

"I do wish you would keep your blind straight in your bedroom," retorted Audrey irritably, "no house could possibly look nice with the blinds all anyhow, as ours are."

"Um, yes, they do look bad, we ought to have sticks for them, tape is always getting loose. Audrey," eagerly, "suppose we take our tea up on the moor, and have a kind of picnic, when the Vivians come. Wouldn't that be rather jolly?"

Audrey's face brightened. "Yes, that might be a good plan. They would not be in the house much then."

"Mother would want to see them."

"Would she? Oh, well, she could. I'd like them to know mother—and her room is quite presentable. We shall have to get some nice cakes. I wonder if we have any baskets that will do to carry the things in? And oh! I do hope that Mary will wash the cups and saucers properly that day. She is so horribly careless, one can't trust her the least little bit. I always have to look at my cup before I drink, to see if it is clean."

Faith looked at her with troubled eyes. "The best plan would be to wash them all yourself that day," she suggested, "then you would be sure they would be all right, and have quite a load off your mind. You can easily offer to wash the dishes and things for Mary, because she will have extra work to do, and then you can put aside those that we shall want in the afternoon. I will go and look out the baskets by and by. Do remind me if I forget. Oh, I must hurry in now, poor Mary is sitting by the fire all this time holding Joan, she will be roasted alive."

Audrey made no reply to her sister's suggestion. She liked things to be dainty, and clean, but she did not like the task of making them so; and to expect her to wash the dishes herself was really rather too much!

The head of a house did not expect to have to do the work herself. Her part was to tell others what to do, and see that they did it. At least that was her opinion.



CHAPTER VIII.

The next two or three days simply raced by, in what, to Audrey, seemed a hopeless struggle against all odds. It certainly was a struggle, but not quite a hopeless one, for by the time Thursday dawned bright and beautiful, a day to cheer even the most uncheerful, many small changes had been wrought in the Vicarage and in the garden. And Audrey had brought them about. Not by herself, certainly, but by the simple process of worrying others until they did what she wanted done.

It is only fair, though, to admit that hers had been the ruling spirit. If it had not been for her, none of the improvements would have been made.

Mary had cleaned all the windows, Faith had, somehow, managed to get rods, and had straightened all the blinds. By offering a ha'penny to the one who swept and raked the garden paths most thoroughly, the garden path was swept and raked until the weeds and the soiled gravel had been turned over and buried out of sight, and with no worse damage than a bump on Tom's forehead, where the handle of the rake had struck him, and some tears on Debby's part because she had lost the prize.

Job Toms too had even been coaxed into bringing a scythe and cutting the grass.

"It would look quite nice if Faith had not made that silly bed all along that side," Audrey admitted.

This was Faith's reward for getting up early, and slaving through the whole of a long hot day to remove the worn turf from a narrow strip of the lawn, the whole length of the path, and dig over the moist brown earth beneath. "I would do the other side too," she said, generously, when she displayed her handiwork, "only I really believe my eyes would drop out if I stooped any more. You see I'd only the trowel to do it with."

"I suppose that is why you have made such a mess, and the bed is all crooked. You should have left it for a gardener to do," said Audrey, ungraciously. "Of course, the turf should have been chopped down, and the whole thing done properly. It would have been better not to have touched it, if you couldn't do it properly."

"Don't you like it?" asked Faith, disappointedly.

"Well, it spoils the look of the place, doesn't it? And just when I had got it made almost fit to look at, for once. I daresay it might be quite pretty if the bed was full of flowers," she added, in a less caustic tone, "as I suppose it will be some day. As it is—well, you must admit it looks a hopeless botch, doesn't it?"

Faith did not reply. There was no need to, and she felt that she could not. Instead, she walked away and down to the village, where she had many friends, and a little later returned with a collection of roots and cuttings and seedlings, which would have taken another person hours to plant properly, but which Faith got into the ground somehow in less than one. She had been too dead beat to get water and put round their roots, and it never occurred to Audrey to do so for her; so the poor things hung wilting and dejected-looking in the early morning sunshine, and only added to the unsightliness of Faith's new border.

On Thursday morning early, Tom, strolling round the garden to walk off a little of his excitement, noticed the poor drooping, dying things, and was filled with pity. Tiptoeing back to the house again for a can of water, he gave them all a drink. Deborah, coming out a few minutes later, found him standing, can in hand, rather wet about the feet and legs, gazing thoughtfully at Faith's new garden.

"I've got an idea," he whispered mysteriously, "such a jolly one! Have you any money?"

"I've got a penny. Daddy gave it to me yesterday."

"I've got two ha'pennies, the one Audrey gave me, and one I had before. Let's go down to Miss Babbs' and buy two penny packets of flower seeds, and sow them, and not say anything about it. Then when they come up everybody'll be surprised."

Debby was enchanted. She loved s'prises, and this was such a pretty one. She loved, too, to back Tom up in anything he suggested.

Miss Babbs was only just taking down her shutters when her early customers arrived, so Tom was able to help her. At least, he thought he helped, and Miss Babbs would not have undeceived him for the world—even though she could have done the work herself in half the time, and with less than half the trouble.

But an even harder task than taking down the shutters, was that of deciding which of all that glorious collection of penny packets should be theirs. Such poppies! such lupins! nasturtiums of such glorious colours were pictured on each.

"I want them all!" replied Debby. "Wouldn't the garden look lovely, and wouldn't Faith be excited!"

"Why, you'd have a flower show all on your own, Miss Debby," laughed Miss Babbs, "and all for five shillings. I don't call it dear, do you?"

"Five shillings!" gasped Debby, "could I have all those for five shillings? I've got ten in the bank——"

"Best keep it there," advised Miss Babbs, sagely. She was rather alarmed by the spirit she had roused. "You never know what may 'appen."

Tom pulled Debby's apron. "Don't be silly," he said in her ear, "the flowers would all be gone by Christmas, and you know we are saving for a——" he ended his sentence by a regular fusilade of mysterious nods and winks.

"Donkey!" ejaculated Debby, innocently completing his sentence for him. "So we are. I had forgotten. I'll take one packet, please, Miss Babbs; and I'd like lupins, please, they are so beautiful."

"And I'll have mignonette, please, 'cause mother loves it, and Faith too. Won't they be glad when it comes up! Do you think mother will be able to smell it from her room?"

"More than likely," said Miss Babbs, encouragingly. "It's wonderful strong when it's a good sort like this."

In the box where all the packets of seeds lay shuffled together, some stray seeds rolled about loose, as though looking for nice soft earth in which to bury themselves.

"Now these seeds must have come from somewhere," cried Miss Babbs, when she caught sight of them, "and somebody or other'll be 'cusing me of giving short weight, and a pretty fine thing that'll be! I never knew nothing so aggravating as what seeds is, they'll worm their way out of anything. Here Master Tom," as she chased and captured some, "take 'em home and plant 'em. Miss Debby, you 'old out your 'and too. I don't know what they are, but they're sure to be something. Those two are sunflowers, and that's a 'sturtium. I do know those, and there's a few sweet peas."

"Oh!" gasped Debby, her face beaming. "Oh, Miss Babbs, how very kind you are!" and she held up her beaming little face to kiss the prim but tenderhearted woman who had been her lifelong friend. "Faith has made a new flower bed," she explained, "she has made it all by herself, but she hasn't very much in it yet. So we wanted to put some seeds in it without her knowing anything about it, so's she would have a s'prise. Now she'll have lots of s'prises. She'll think it's the piskies, won't she?"

"Two-legged piskies, I guess," laughed Miss Babbs, knowingly, and the children were too polite to remind her that piskies never had more. "When your peas come up, Miss Deborah, you come along to me, and I will give you some fine little sticks for them."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Debby, and in the excitement they both ran off still clutching their pennies, and had to go back again with them.

They had spent so much time over their purchases, that they had only just got their seeds planted by the time the breakfast bell rang. Their great fear was that Faith might have seen them, and would ask them what they had been doing; but Faith had been so busy dressing Joan, and helping Mary in the kitchen, she had had no time to look out of the window.

Audrey, though, came full upon them as they came in with their hands earthy, and their pinafores wet, and Audrey was irritable because she was so nervous and anxious.

"I do think you children might have kept yourselves decently clean until breakfast time," she snapped, crossly. "But I am sure you must try to see how much trouble you can give. Whatever have you been doing? Something you oughtn't to, of course." She stood glowering darkly down at them, and the two bright little faces lost their brightness.

"We've been—'tending to Faith's new flower-bed," said Tom, sturdily, "the plants would have died if we hadn't watered them."

"Faith's flower-bed? It isn't Faith's any more than it is mine, or—or——"

The two looked at each other in consternation. If they had known that, they would not have spent their precious pennies in buying seeds for it. Tom's annoyance found vent in words. "If it was yours, why didn't you give it some water, then?" he demanded.

Audrey made no reply. "If you don't behave yourselves, you won't be allowed to go to the picnic this afternoon," she said sternly, as she walked away to the dining-room, leaving two mortified, angry little hearts behind her.

"I don't want to go to her old picnic," stormed Tom in his bedroom, as he scrubbed his earthy hands.

"Oh, yes, you do—it isn't Audrey's picnic," urged Debby anxiously, "it is all of ours. It is daddy's really, and—and I shall have to go, Tom, and I can't go without you, there wouldn't be anybody to talk to. Say you'll come, Tom, do. There's going to be a cake with cherries and nuts on it, and one with jam—and Faith would be so mis'rubble if you didn't come."

"All right," Tom assented, with a lordly air, "I'll come, just to show Audrey the picnic isn't hers, nor the moon neither. Don't worry."

The Vivians were to arrive soon after lunch, and not return until the seven o'clock train in the evening.

"I suppose I had better go and meet them," said Audrey, at dinner-time, "as they were my friends first."

"And as I have met them twice since then, I think I will go too," said Mr. Carlyle, laughingly. "I have to be at one of the cottages near the station this afternoon, so I will manage to be at the station by time their train comes in."

"Then I shall have time to make Joan tidy, and change my frock before they get here," said Faith quietly, as she helped the now quite recovered Joan to spoon up her pudding. Tom and Debby did not speak, but they exchanged glances which would have told a tale to anyone who had intercepted them; and as soon as they were allowed to leave the table, they strolled in a casual way to the back door, and through the yard. Then suddenly they started as though they had been stung, and raced away as fast as their legs would go.

"I wish I hadn't forgotten to take off my overall," panted Debby, as they reached the station.

A little country station does not afford many good hiding places. In common with most of its kind, Moor End had only the ticket office, station master's office, and one bare little general waiting-room, the door of which always stood invitingly open. For a second the pair stood pondering deeply, then marched up boldly, and knocking in an airy fashion at the station master's door, opened it hurriedly and marched in.

"We have come to have a little talk with you, Mr. Tripp," said Debby, with her most insinuating smile. "It is such a long time since we saw you. Tom, unfasten my overall at the back, please, and I will carry it over my arm. It is very hot to-day," she added, by way of explanation to her host.

"It is, missie, and you look hot too, Have you been running?"

"Ye-es—we did run a—a little."

"Ah! and not long had your dinner, I'll be bound. Running on one's dinner is always hot work, and apt to cause a good bit of pain sometimes."

"We didn't run on it—we ran after it," said Debby, crushingly.

"Well, anyway, miss, you didn't have to run for it," and the old man chuckled at his own joke. Tom and Debby, though, refused to smile, they felt that they were being laughed at, and they resented it.

"We ran," explained Tom, formally, "because we—we wanted to get here before the next train comes in. You—you are so busy when there's a train in, that there is no chance of talking to you."

"Ay, ay, sir," agreed Mr. Tripp, with a twinkle in his eye, "sometimes I have one passenger getting out here, sometimes I have as many as four! Market days there's a reg'lar crowd coming and going."

"Well, you'll have three, at least, by the next train," said Tom, knowingly.

"O—ho! and you have come to meet them, I suppose. A sort of a pleasant little surprise for them. I thought you'd come to have a little chat with me!"

"So we have—both. Father's coming too, and our eldest sister."

"I see, but you came on ahead. You didn't wait for them." A knock at the door broke in on the conversation. Tom and Debby grew very red, and looked slightly nervous.

"Tripp, can I speak to you a minute?" Round the door came the vicar's head.

"Oh—h! I beg your pardon, you are engaged. Hullo! Why, you young scapegraces, what are you doing here, taking up Mr. Tripp's time, and—and filling up his office!"

The two scarlet faces lost their nervous look, and became wreathed in smiles. When daddy spoke like that, all was well.

"The train is signalled, sir," said the station master, and led the way out to the platform. At that same moment Audrey came sailing down the road, hurrying as fast as she could, with dignity. She was looking as dainty and fresh as a flower in her clean white frock. She wore a pretty sun hat, trimmed with blue ribbon, and the scarf hung around her neck exactly matched it. Her long hair was tied at the nape of her neck with a black bow.

"Oh, doesn't Audrey look pretty!" Debby's enthusiastic admiration died away in a sigh as she looked down over her untidy self, and, for the first time in her life, she felt ashamed of her appearance.

"I—I wished I'd stayed to wash my hands," she whispered nervously to Tom, "and had put on my hat, it would have covered up my hair—I never brushed it."

"Oh, you are all right," responded Tom, consolingly "just button up your shoes."

"I can't, the buttons are off. Oh! and you haven't got on any tie! Oh, Tom, what will they think?"

"Well—I couldn't find it. I looked and looked. Here's the engine. Oh, Deb, doesn't she look fine?"

"Splendid," said Deborah, but only half-heartedly. She was so sorry Tom had not a tie on, and that she had not made herself look as nice as Audrey did. And when there stepped out of the train two trim figures in spotless blue cotton frocks, and a boy in an equally spotless grey flannel suit, Debby could not face them, but turned and raced off the platform and up the street as fast as her legs could take her. Too fast, indeed, for her slippers, for they dropped off very soon, and she hadn't time to stop and pick them up. It was easier to run along in stockinged feet, than in shoes that slopped off at the heels with every step she took. It was rather painful work, though, and Debby was glad when she reached the shelter of home.

"Oh, Faith!" she cried, almost falling into the room. "They have come, and they are so—so tidy, and pretty! They have on blue frocks, and big hats with cornflowers on them; and, oh, please do try and make me look tidy and pretty too!"

Faith was standing before the glass, tying up her hair. She had been taking unusual pains with her appearance to-day, and she was rather late— which was not unusual. Joan, looking a perfect darling in her little long white frock, was sitting on the bed, playing with reels of cotton.

"Where are your shoes?" asked Faith, looking in dismay at Debby's much-darned stockings.

"I lost them—down the village. They fell off when I was running. Somebody will bring them back all right," she added, consolingly, "they've got my name inside."

It was Irene Vivian who brought them back. "Your brother said they were yours," she smiled, as she handed the shabby brown shoes to the blushing Debby.

"I am so sorry," said Debby, apologetically. "Tom should have carried them. You see, I'd lost the buttons, and they dropped off when I was running. I—I couldn't stay to go back, I was in—in rather a hurry."

She took the shoes, and was putting them on as they were. "I'm going to wear them to-day, 'cause they're comfortabler than my best ones, and the heather and brambles and things would scratch up my best ones," she added, confidentially. "I am going up on the moor to tea—we are all going. All except Joan." Has Audrey told you?

"I am glad of that, only I'd like Joan to go too. But you can't walk comfortably without any buttons on your shoes. If you could find me two, and a needle and cotton, and a thimble, I would sew them on for you. Oh, here is a work-basket. I will take what I want from here. Shall I?"

"Oh, oh!" gasped Debby, "that is Audrey's. I don't think we had better touch that—she is dreadfully particular. She gen'rally keeps it up in her room; but she brought her best things down here to-day, 'cause you were coming."

"How kind of her," said Irene. She felt somewhat embarrassed by these confidences. "And I am sure then she would not mind my using her work-basket. I won't hurt it the least little bit in the world."

She looked round for Audrey, to ask her permission, but she could not see her, and helped herself to a thimble, and needle and cotton. It never entered her head that there could be any reason why she should not do so. Mr. Carlyle had gone off to collect the baskets, Audrey had run upstairs to see if her mother was ready and able to see the guests for a little while before the start. Faith was showing Joan to Daphne. The two boys, very anxious in their first shyness to have something to do, had followed Mr. Carlyle.

When Audrey came down, Irene was putting the finishing stitches to the second shoe. Audrey looked shocked and displeased. "Oh, Debby, how dare you!" she cried, scarcely knowing, in her indignation, what she was saying.

"You should say 'how dare you' to me," laughed Irene, as she returned the thimble and needle to their places. "I asked if I might sew on Debby's buttons, and I used your basket. I hope you don't mind. I haven't done any harm, I think."

Audrey did mind, but she could hardly say so. "I never did know such children," she cried, trying to conceal her vexation. Debby's shoes were decidedly shabby, yet she could not have displayed them more thoroughly. It almost seemed as though she took a pride in their shabbiness. "They never seem able to keep a button on for two days together. I really think they pull them off on purpose."

"Oh, Audrey! I don't, you know I don't. I told you days ago that one was off, and the other one was loose—and then the loose one came off too."

Irene strolled over and looked out of the window. "What a jolly garden," she said, anxious to put an end to the discussion. "I wish we had a large plain piece of grass like that. At grandfather's the turf is all cut up with flower-beds, and one can hardly step for ornamental flower pots—and things. We three never seem able to do anything without damaging something."

Audrey's face cleared a little. "Well, we haven't too many flower beds," she laughed. "In fact, one can hardly call ours a garden. The children play there, and, of course, that spoils it. But, of course, they must have somewhere to play." She had put on her best company manner and grandmotherly speech. "Will you come up now to see mother? Then I think we ought to start. No, Debby, you must stay down, we don't want you." Debby's face fell, but Irene looked back with a smile, which made up for the hurt.

It was a great satisfaction to Audrey that her mother, and her mother's room, were both so dainty and pretty, as she ushered Irene and Daphne in. It was the first satisfaction she had felt that day, so far.

"I have been longing to see you," said Mrs. Carlyle, warmly, kissing them both, "ever since I heard you were so near. I used to know your father when he was a boy, and I am so glad that his children and mine should have met. I hope you will become real friends, dear."

"I hope so," said Irene, her face alight with pleasure. "Did you really know father? I am so glad. Abbot's Field seems so like home, for he told us so much about it, and he loved it so."

"Mrs. Carlyle," broke in Daphne, "did you guess who we were when Audrey told you who she had travelled home with? We told her where we lived; but we didn't know then who she was."

Audrey blushed painfully, and waited in dread of her mother's reply.

"I—no, dear, not then. I was rather ill when Audrey came home. I did not realise."

"I—I think we had better start now." Audrey got up from her chair, and went to the door hurriedly. She was so nervous she felt she could not bear any more. "The nicest part of the afternoon will be gone if we don't go."

Daphne sprang to her feet, but Irene rose more reluctantly. "Will you be alone while we are away?" she asked, lingering by Mrs. Carlyle's sofa. "It seems so selfish to go away and leave you. I wish I could be with you—or you with us."

Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her with shining eyes. "I would love a picnic on the moor above all things," she said. "Another summer, perhaps, if you are here, we will all go. I shall look forward to that, Irene, as eagerly as if I were a child. Perhaps Joan will be able to go too—the big baby and the little one!"

"Oh, I hope so," said Irene, her beautiful eyes glowing, "and I hope we shall be here. We want mother to take a house somewhere near, we love this part better than any—Coming, Audrey, coming!" She stooped and kissed the invalid affectionately. "Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Is the window as you like it? Do you want a book or anything handed to you?" While she spoke she was spreading the rug smooth over the invalid's feet.

"Yes, dear, please if you will pass me that book and lower the blind a little, I shall be able to read myself to sleep."

"Irene! Irene! are you coming?" a voice called up the stairs again.

"Run, dear, I must not keep you any longer. I am so comfortable now, with everything put right."

"Good-bye then for the time," said Irene, smiling back brightly as she stood at the door.

"Good-bye, little nurse. Try to enjoy yourself, dear; and thank you for all you have done for me."

But, though she was so comfortable and 'had everything she wanted,' Mrs. Carlyle did not fall asleep for a long while after the girls had left her, but lay gazing thoughtfully before her, and more than once tears shone in her eyes and fell on to her pillow.

"They are such darlings, too," she murmured at last, rousing herself with a little shake, as though trying to shake off her thoughts. "They are such dear children, it is wicked to wish them other than they are, yet sympathy is very sweet; and—and understanding makes life very, very pleasant."



CHAPTER IX.

"Debby! Tom! Are you ready? It is time to start." Dead silence.

"Audrey, ask Mary if she knows where they are, will you, please?"

Audrey walked away reluctantly. The whole party had collected just where they could look right into the kitchen directly the door was open; and one of the last things Audrey wanted, under the circumstances, was to open the door, for she knew, only too well, the state the kitchen was in. Instead of being neat and spotless, a place of gleaming copper and silvery shining steel, of snowy wood and polished china, such as she would have loved to display, it was all a hopeless muddle and confusion, a regular 'Troy Town' of a kitchen.

Perhaps she hoped she could make Mary hear without actually opening the door; but it was a forlorn hope. Mary was generally afflicted with deep deafness if one particularly wanted her hearing to be acute. She was now. Audrey called again and again in vain.

"Open the door," suggested Mr. Carlyle, "she is probably rattling pans and dishes and can't hear anything beyond."

"Put your head in and shout," suggested Faith, and Daphne and Keith laughed.

Audrey had to do it. She knew that if she did not Faith would—and when Faith opened a door—well, all there was to see one saw. In a gust of anger she turned the handle and opened the door as little as she could. Oh how she longed for one of the exquisitely neat Dutch kitchens so often seen in pictures.

"Mary!" she called in impatiently, "wherever are you? Do you know what has become of the children?"

Mary heard at last, and hurrying forward to reply, spread the door as hospitably wide as it would go, and stood outlined against a background of dirty pots and pans, a table piled with unwashed dishes, and a litter of torn paper everywhere. She had been so busy packing the baskets for tea that her own work had got more behind than usual.

"I saw them going out of the garden carrying a basket each," she said slowly, eyeing the while with the keenest interest the visitors whom she now saw for the first time. "I thought you had sent them on ahead, perhaps, Miss Audrey."

Mr. Carlyle counted again the baskets on the table. "There are four here. Isn't that the lot?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Mary looked puzzled. "Then I don't know what they were carrying. I didn't pay much heed, but I'm sure they were carrying some, and heavy ones too."

"Some nonsense or other that they have thought of, I suppose," sighed Audrey wearily, and hurried away. Mary would not close that door as long as they stood there, so the only thing to do was to take the guests away.

"I expect they have gone on to try and find a specially nice spot to have tea in," suggested Faith. "They are always busy about something and they love to give us surprises. Don't you think we had better follow them?"

Mr. Carlyle laughed. "As likely as not they have taken up a load of their toys to help to make a pleasant afternoon for us. Now, can you young people carry two of these baskets between you, if I carry the other two?"

"I can take both," cried Keith eagerly, "it is easier to carry two than one." But the girls would listen to no such argument.

"Oh no, no," laughed Faith, "we have some strong sticks on purpose to sling them on, then two of us will carry a basket between us. I have been longing to try it, it seems such an easy way."

But Keith, though longing to help, was not inclined for a tete-a-tete with one of his own sisters, and was shy of facing one with one of these strangers. "I know," he cried, with sudden inspiration, "I'll walk in the middle with the end of a stick in either hand and you four can take it in turns to carry the other ends." No one having anything to say against this plan they proceeded, Faith grasping one stick and Irene the other, while the baskets swung between in a fashion that would have turned the milk to butter had there been any in them to turn. Behind the trio walked Audrey and Daphne, dainty and decorous enough to give an air to any party.

Upon the moor, meanwhile, Debby and Tom sat triumphant but exhausted.

"Won't they be s'prised!" panted Debby. "Won't it be fun. Oh, Tom, I must take them out, they are crying so." The first only of her remarks applied to her family. She untied the lid of her basket and, lifting the cover, peeped in. "Oh, Tom," her voice growing shrill with alarm, "Snowdrop is stepping on Nigger's head, and—oh! Rudolph looks as though he is quite dead!" Her voice had risen to a cry of horror.

"Haul them out then," cried Tom brusquely. "What are you waiting for!" He was nearly as alarmed as Debby, but not for worlds would he have shown it. "I expect he is only asleep or shamming."

With shaking hands Debby, awed into silence for the moment, lifted out first a tiny black kitten, then a white one, and last of all a black and white one, and laid them on the short warm grass beside her. Nigger and Snowdrop began to sprawl about at once, revelling in their freedom. The black and white Rudolph opened a pair of watery blue eyes, gazed sleepily about him, and fell asleep again with every sign of satisfaction.

"He's all right," cried Tom, relieved, yet annoyed at having been for a moment alarmed. "He's a greedy little pig; he can't keep awake because he eats so much. Now, look out, I am going to let out Nibbler."

"Oh!" gasped Debby, still busy with her pets, "won't they love it! Wait a sec., Tom, till I'm looking. Snowdrop you shall all go back into the basket this minute if you don't stop yelling! You are only doing it to annoy. Now I am ready. Don't lift him; just open the cover and let him hop out by himself. We'll see what he does. Oh-h-h, he won't eat my kittens, will he?"

"Nibbler isn't a cannibal, he's a rabbit," declared Nibbler's owner indignantly. "Now, look out!" He opened the lid slowly, and Nibbler sniffed the air rapturously.

"Oh, doesn't he love it! Look at his dear little nose wriggling with joy. Oh Tom! do look at him waggling his ears!" Debby's voice grew shrill again with excitement. Nibbler hopped out of the basket and her joy became intense.

For a moment, as though bewildered by the space, the sunshine, and the breeze, the great rabbit sat and stared about him; then suddenly old instincts came crowding back upon his rabbit brain, He saw furze and bracken, and rabbits' burrows all about him, he felt the turf under his feet, and life calling to him—and he followed the call!

When, a little later, the rest of the party arrived, they found three forlorn kittens tumbling helplessly over each other, and squealing loudly with fright, while in the distance two little blue-clad figures dashed desperately from one clump of bracken to another, and with tears running down their faces, shouting frantically "Nibbler, Nibbler, oh darling, do come here, you will be killed if you stay out here all night; Nibbler, Nibbler!"

It did not take the family long to grasp what had happened. "They will break their hearts if they lose him," cried Faith, almost as distracted as the children. "We shall never get them to go home and leave him behind. They will stay all night searching for him."

"I will go and help them," said Keith at once. "What colour is he?"

"White and tan, nothing uncommon, but we all love him."

Audrey felt very cross. "One can always count on those children to spoil every plan we make," she muttered to herself vexedly; "they deserve to be whipped and sent home to bed, tiresome little torments!"

All of the party but herself had hurried away to join in the search, and she was left standing alone by the baskets.

"Well, there is no need for me to go fagging round too, and someone ought to stay by the things, or they might be stolen. One never knows if there are tramps about."

She seated herself comfortably on the grass with her back against a basket and waited. It never occurred to her to unpack the baskets and begin to arrange the tea-table, nor to take up the frightened kittens and try to stop their cries. She just sat there revelling in the sunshine and the breeze, and the scent of the furze-blossom. It was so beautiful that she almost forgot everything unpleasant or worrying. In the distance she caught sight of a man on horseback galloping across the moor, and began to weave a story of bearers of secret tidings, plots and enemies, in which the distant horseman was the hero and she the heroine, and she had just reached, in her own mind, a village wedding and little girls strewing in the path of a noble one-armed hero and a bride, white as a lily save for her crown of burnished hair, when Irene returned, and with a little sigh of weariness dropped on the ground beside her.

"We can't find him," she sighed, "and those poor babies are breaking their hearts. What can we do?" Irene was really distressed, but Audrey, with her eyes fixed on the horseman, and her thoughts on the story she might write, had none left for sympathy with two children and a lost rabbit.

"Oh, he is quite old," she cried involuntarily. The rider was near enough now for her to see that his hair was grey and—oh, horror, that he had a beard!

Irene looked up in surprise. "Who?" she inquired, "Nibbler?" Then her eyes followed Audrey's, and with a cry of delight and surprise she sprang to her feet. "Why, it's grandfather!" and ran forward to meet him.

Audrey was glad that she did so—she was glad to be alone for one moment, in which to recover herself. Oh how thankful she was that no one could read her thoughts, how thankful that no one knew what she had been thinking. She saw the rider dismount and greet Irene, she saw Irene tuck her arm contentedly through his arm and lead him forward; and she had scarcely recovered from her confusion when Irene brought him up to her saying, "This is my grandfather, Audrey."

"Grandfather, you have heard us talk of Audrey, the girl we travelled down with the day we came to you. Mr. Carlyle and all the rest are looking for the children's rabbit. The poor dears brought him out to share the picnic and he has hopped off on his own account. Now you must stay here and talk to Audrey while I go and look for him just over there. I think we haven't looked in that clump of ferns yet."

Mr. Vivian slipped the rein from off his arm and left his horse free to crop the grass. "He will be safe," he said reassuringly, "he will not go far from me. Peter is more dependable than the rabbit Irene was speaking of."

Peter moved away a few paces, and his master seated himself on the grass near Audrey and the baskets and the kittens. "What sort of a rabbit is it?" he asked, "and which way did he go?"

"I don't know which way he went," said Audrey, "he was gone when we reached here. The children were very naughty, they started off by themselves, unknown to anyone, with a basket of kittens and a rabbit. There are the kittens. They have been making that dreadful noise ever since we came."

"Poor little creatures! they are frightened, they want to be taken up and held."

"They would spoil my clean frock," said Audrey hesitating.

Mr. Vivian picked up the three little squealing things and held them in his own arms. Their cries soon changed to a contented note. "They can't hurt my old coat," he remarked with a smile, "not that I'd mind much if they did, poor little beggars."

Audrey felt vexed and ashamed and could think of no reply to make. For a moment silence fell, broken only by the singing of the birds all around them.

Close to them and to Peter was a large clump of bracken on which Mr. Vivian's eyes rested lazily. Suddenly he deposited his three little charges on the ground again, "What was the colour of your rabbit?" he asked in a lowered tone.

"White and light brown," said Audrey, "quite a common kind. It wasn't a valuable one, but the children——"

"If you get up very gently and go round to that side of the clump of ferns," Mr. Vivian broke in hastily, "I think we shall get the gentleman. I feel pretty sure he is in there. I saw something big move when Peter stepped close. Now then, stoop down on that side and grab him if he runs out, and I will be on the look out for him here."

There was no need though for Audrey to grab, for the poor frightened creature only stared up bewildered when Mr. Vivian opened the ferns above its head, and with one sure grasp lifted it up and into his arm.

"Now," he said, as pleased almost as Debby and Tom themselves could be, "I'll pop my gentleman into his basket while I hurry on to tell the news, and relieve those poor little aching hearts."

Surprise at his presence, or awe of his rugged face and grey hairs were entirely swallowed up in the joy his news brought them. To the three Carlyle children he was a complete stranger, but they took him to their hearts then and there.

"We will give you the very, very nicest tea we can possibly give you," cried Faith enthusiastically, when each in turn and all together had poured out their thanks. "I hope you are longing for some, for we want to give you something that you want very much."

"I did not know I was," laughed the old gentleman, "but now you have mentioned it I find it is the one thing I want."

Tom and Debby ran on ahead to rejoice over their newly-recovered darling, the rest trooped back more slowly. Audrey seeing them coming got up and began to bustle around. She felt a little ashamed of herself, and very anxious to wipe out the not very pleasing impression she felt sure she had made on their visitor. She got out the table cloth and spread it on the ground.

"First of all," suggested Faith, "we had better build up the fire and put the kettle on. It takes rather long sometimes."

"I'll get some sticks," volunteered Keith. "Come along, Tom, we'll provide the wood; that shall be our job."

"I want to go too," cried Debby, "but the kittens are asleep, and I can't possibly disturb them, can I?"

"Run along," said Mr. Vivian kindly, "I will mind your kittens for you, they know me, and we will be as happy as kings together."

"I wish," Audrey remarked, "that we had some methylated spirits and a stove. It is ever so much quicker and not nearly so messy."

"But it isn't as much fun," consoled Irene, "and the tea tastes so nice when the water is boiled over sticks and furze. Don't you think so?"

"I don't know. I don't see that it can make any difference. But I think it is a dreadful bother trying to get enough for everyone. The fire always goes out or the——"

"Audrey," called out Faith, "where is the kettle? Daphne and I will go to the cottage to get it filled."

"I haven't the kettle," said Audrey. "I haven't seen it. Isn't it in the basket over by you? Don't say you have come without it?"

"I am afraid we have," said Faith reluctantly, after looking in vain in all directions. "What can we do? Do you think the woman at the cottage would lend us one?"

"If she did she would be sure to say we had damaged it. If it sprang a leak at the end of six months she would be sure to think it was our fault." Poor Audrey felt and looked thoroughly vexed. Everything so far that day had gone wrong, and she had wanted it to be so different. What she could not see was that nothing had gone wrong seriously, and a little good temper and a sense of humour could not only have carried her through triumphantly, but have turned most of the predicaments to fun.

Keith came up with a bundle of sticks in his arms and heard the tale of woe. "Oh, that's nothing," he said with a promptness that was most consoling. "I will ask grandfather to lend me Peter and we'll trot back and get a kettle in a flash."

But Mr. Vivian preferred to go himself. "And I'll take young Tom with me," he said. "He can run in and explain to the maid and get the kettle in half the time Keith or I could. We should have to explain who we were and by what right we came and demanded the family tea-kettle."

Audrey demurred, blushing at the mere idea, and she blushed again when, Peter and his two riders returning, she saw Mr. Vivian waving the old kettle triumphantly.

"Oh," she cried impatiently, "I did think Mary would have had the sense to wrap it up!"

"I wouldn't let her. I told her not to do anything more than tie a piece of paper round its smutty sides. Now, while we are mounted, don't you think it would be a good plan for us to ride over to the cottage and get the kettle filled? I like to be useful," as all protested against his taking this trouble. "You see, I feel that if I do something for it I shall be able to ask boldly for a second cup of tea." And the old gentleman rode away laughing, as full of enjoyment as any of them.

Now at last things promised to go right. In a very short time the kettle, filled with water, was hanging over a blazing fire of sticks and furze, and Mr. Vivian had ridden away to borrow a pitcherful of water in case the kettle required to be filled again, as it almost certainly would. A new site was chosen for the tea-table and the cloth was spread. Daphne brought sprigs of heather and grasses and green ferns to decorate the table with. Keith, with Tom helping him, worked like a Trojan at stoking the fire, and Audrey was glad that someone else undertook that smutty, eye-smarting business, or her hands and her dress would have been as grubby as theirs probably, before she had done.

Irene was taking cups and saucers, plates and dishes from Faith as she unpacked them, and arranging them on the table.

"But you are the guests," said Audrey presently, "you mustn't bother about helping. Faith and I ought to do all that."

"Oh, but I love to. Do you mind?" Irene looked round, a swift delicate colour mounting to her cheeks.

"Mind!" Audrey knew as well as possible that she could never have arranged such a dainty, alluring-looking tea table, as was every minute growing in attractiveness before her eyes. She knew how it should look when done, but Irene knew how to do it. Audrey did think though that she would like to be of some use. She was feeling rather snubbed and very much out of things.

Irene saw it and drew back a little. "I am afraid—I did not mean to—to be bossy," she added, colouring again more warmly. "I only wanted to help," and she pushed towards Audrey the box of cakes she had been unpacking. "I suppose it comes from being the eldest. Everyone seems to expect the eldest to do things, and—and so I have got into the way of doing them as a matter of course. I am awfully sorry, Audrey, it was a great cheek of me."

But Audrey scarcely heard what she was saying, for she was thinking that no one went to her to have things done for them. No one seemed to expect anything of her.

"I suppose they think I am not able—but, at any rate, I can take cakes out of a box and arrange them on a plate." And while trying her hardest to make the dishes look as attractive as possible she grew less unhappy and more in tune with everything.

"Oh, how pretty," said Faith, coming to her with the teapot in one hand and a packet of tea in the other. "Audrey, will you measure out the tea. I don't know a bit how much to put in for such a lot of us."

Here was something expected of her, at any rate. She should have felt elated at being again appealed to, but she only looked vaguely from Faith to Irene and back again. "Neither do I," she confessed at last.

Irene counted heads on her fingers. "Nine," she reckoned, "two real kiddies, two ex-kiddies,"—fixing her eyes on Keith and Daphne. Daphne threw a tuft of heather at her, "one—two—three——"

"Flappers," interrupted Keith derisively.

"Grown-ups," finished Irene, ignoring him, "and two real grown-ups who like their tea strong. I should think half-a-dozen teaspoonsful would do. If we haven't tea enough to go round, Keith and Daphne shall drink hot water; it will be so good for their complexion."

"What gratitude! after we have slaved so over the fire and boiling the kettle and all," cried Keith indignantly.

"What is the 'all'? Don't say that you have boiled anything more than the water."

But the discussion was put an end to by the kettle, which boiled over at that moment, and the tea was made as Irene had decreed.

Then at last the whole party gathered round the table; the kittens, revived by milk, played happily together on the grass. Nibbler sulked in his basket and took sly bites at a handful of dandelion leaves when he thought that no one was noticing him; but everyone else was happy, hungry, and content. The fresh air gave them all such appetites that everything they had to eat and drink seemed to be doubly good; the same beautiful air and the sunshine sent their spirits soaring, and set everyone in the mood to laugh and joke. All stiffness and shyness had so completely vanished that the visitors already seemed like old friends rather than new ones; and Audrey was just thinking how very happy life might be, even at home in Moor End, when, in a pause in the chatter, a sharp pitiful cry floated across the stillness to them.

Debby was on her feet in a moment. "It is one of the kittens," she cried anxiously. "Oh, what has happened? I am sure one is hurt."

Everyone's eyes searched the ground around them. Snowdrop was seen at once, and Nigger was close by. Suddenly Keith started to run, Debby tore after him, the same fear possessing them both. A little way off Peter stood cropping the grass, a few paces behind him Rudolph lay on the turf bleeding and very still—his inquisitiveness had led him too far at last. In inspecting Peter's hoofs he had got under one and so ended his curiosity for ever.



Keith reached him first, and by the time poor, panting, white-faced Debby drew near he had covered the little lifeless body with his handkerchief. "He is dead," he said gently, going to meet her and lead her away. "Poor little chap—he must have been killed at once. Come away, Debby dear, don't look at him." And he stood with his arm around her shaking shoulders while her first anguished sobs broke from her.

"Don't cry so, Debby," he urged her; consoling her more by his tone than his words, "be brave, old girl. He—he—poor little chap—he—won't suffer any more. He—won't have to be given away now." Keith found it very hard to find anything comforting to say. In fact, he would have been glad to have been somewhere quite alone, that he might have shed a few tears unobserved, himself. "Anyhow, he enjoyed his life—as long—as it lasted. You made him awfully happy."

"But he had only had six weeks and two days," sobbed Debby, "and I loved him best of all, he was so ugly, and people laughed at him. Oh, why couldn't he have stayed where I put him! Oh, Rudolph, you dear naughty darling, I loved you so."

Keith clasped her closer, "Never mind, old girl; don't cry, Debby." Debby's face was bowed on his other arm. Suddenly she stretched out a groping arm. "Handkerchief please, I—I lost mine."

"I—I am awfully sorry, but mine is spread over Rudolph."

"Never mind, don't take it away from him." Debby's tears flew fast again. "But I wish I knew where mine was, it's—it's rather awkward."

At that moment, though, the rest of the family came up, and Audrey, who, true to a habit taught her by her grandmother, always carried two, provided the little mourner with the much-needed handkerchief.

But though she provided for her wants Audrey was thoroughly vexed and upset with the little mourner. It seemed to her that the two children really did go out of their way to spoil everyone's enjoyment.

Her eye fell on Tom standing close beside her. "It all comes of your naughtiness in the first place," she said irritably, "if you hadn't brought all these animals up here we might all have had some pleasure, and Rudolph would have been alive and happy. Now you and Debby have the satisfaction of knowing that by your behaviour you have spoilt the day for everyone, and killed a poor little helpless kitten."

Audrey was not observant or she would have noticed her little brother's white face and quivering lips. If she had been sympathetic she would have understood that the sorrow which filled his heart was doubled, trebled, by the knowledge that his act—innocent little joke though it was, was at the bottom of the tragedy—but Audrey understood neither. She was annoyed and she wanted to hurt.

Mr. Carlyle, who, if he had not heard all, had seen more than Audrey was capable of seeing, went over and put his arm around his little son's shoulders protectingly. He knew what the boy was enduring—that he was learning in that hour a lesson which would remain with him all his life.

"If we could all of us foresee the consequences of what we do," he said, "we should be saved from doing many a wrong and foolish thing. If we could look ahead and see the effect of what we say, we would often bite our tongues rather than utter the words trembling on them. When I was a little boy, my mother taught me some verses which I hardly understood at the time, but they have often come back to my mind since, whenever I have felt inclined to blame other people. I will tell them to you, that you may remember too.

"'Happy are they, and only they, Who from His precepts never stray. Who know what's right, nor only so, But always practice what they know.'

"But always practise what they know," Mr. Carlyle reflected thoughtfully. "I wonder which of us do that?"

Audrey coloured deeply, and found no words to say. Thoughts came crowding on her mind, remembrance of many things left undone, of many complainings of others, of duties neglected, of selfishness—known to no one but herself—and her heart grew shamed and very humble. How many times since she had come home had she not preached what she did not practise?

"But," went on Mr. Carlyle sadly, "I love better the words of a more kindly singer, one who shows us not only the mountain-top, but helps us up the steep, rough path to it:

"'If you would help to make the wrong things right, Begin at home, there lies a life-time's toil. Weed your own garden fair for all men's sight, Before you plan to till another's soil.'

"Shall we try to do that, my Audrey, you, and little Tom, and I? I think we should be happier:

"'If you are sighing for a lofty work, If great ambitions dominate your mind, Just watch yourself, and see you do not shirk The common little ways of being kind.'"

With his other arm around her the trio strolled away across the moor. "We all need kindness so much, and forbearance. In this world we cannot get on without them. Shall we start fresh from to-day, Audrey?"

Audrey looked at her father through tear-filled eyes, her lips were quivering. "Oh father, father, I want to—but I don't know how."

"There is only one way, dear. By constant striving against our failing, and by constant prayer. We cannot succeed by ourselves, we should only meet with certain failure. But if we place our hand in God's hand we know that though we may stumble and totter many times, we cannot fail entirely."

A few minutes later she was kneeling beside Debby, where she still lay sobbing heartbrokenly.

"Debby dear, I have picked some heath and some dear little ferns. If Keith will help me, we will make such a pretty grave for poor little Rudolph, up here on the moor. Would you like that?"

For a moment Debby looked at her in speechless surprise. "Could it be cross Audrey speaking so gently?" Then her arms were flung out and around her eldest sister's neck, "Oh, Audrey," she cried, "oh Audrey, I am so glad you care too. Though he wasn't—very pretty, he was such a darling, and I do, I want everyone to feel sorry that he is dead—but I thought you didn't."

And Audrey returned the embrace. "I do Debby dear, I do. I can't tell you how dreadfully sorry I am."

When, an hour later, the whole party turned their faces homeward, one of Debby's hands was clasped in Audrey's, the other in Keith's. Audrey carried the sleeping Snowdrop and Keith the sleeping Nigger; while up on the now desolate looking moorland, little Rudolph lay sleeping in the soft brown earth beneath a clump of waving bracken. So short a life his had been, so tragic and swift an end, but the hand-clasp of the sisters showed that his little life had not been lived in vain.



CHAPTER X.

A few days later Mr. Carlyle was upon the moor again, but this time everything was very different. There was no happy party, no picnic, no sunshine nor soft breeze.

Instead, there lay about him one unbroken stretch of desolation, above him a sky almost frightening in its aspect, with its banked-up masses of black and copper clouds, over which the lightning ran like streams of liquid fire.

He had been to visit a parishioner in a cottage at the farthest corner of his parish, and while there the storm, which had been threatening all day, had broken with a violence such as he had never known before. For nearly two hours he had remained a prisoner in the little lonely house, which had seemed merely a fragile toy, to be their only shelter from the floods of rain, the deafening thunder, the flaming, darting lightning. Again and again it had seemed as though the roof and walls must crack and fall about them, or the rain come through and wash them from their shelter.

But those who had built the sturdy little house had built well, if roughly, and the stone walls stood as though they were one solid block of stone, the rain beat on the roof, but streamed off it, not a drop came through. The little deep-set windows stared at the flashing lightning as though with a patient unconcern, until at last the storm seemed to grow tired of its sport, and swept away to find other victims.

In spite of the fact that the ground was like a sponge, that the little cart-track, which was the only approach to the house, was filled up with water, and that rain still fell, Mr. Carlyle made his way to the highest point of the moor to look about him. It was not often he could see so fine a sight, such a storm-swept sky, such curious lights and shadows.

Before the gusty wind the black clouds were rolling heavily away to the west, where Abbot's Field lay. Mr. Carlyle's face grew anxious as he looked at the dense mass of fiery blackness, and the heavy mist, which seemed to envelop the place as with something evil. Every now and again the black clouds appeared to open and show something of the glory and radiance behind them, a radiance which human eye would not look upon. Then close on the flashes came the crackling and booming thunder again, only more distant now.