"I hope the Vivians are not nervous," he murmured. "I am afraid King's Abbot is having it even more severely than Moor End."

Moor End stood at the edge of the extreme end of King's Moor. Abbot's Field, the larger village, lay two or three miles further along the edge, while behind both the great moor rolled away and away to the south, desolate, barren, until it reached the sea and the little villages scattered along the coast.

Mr. Carlyle turned and looked at the rolling stretches of grey-green land all round him. Besides himself, and that one tiny dwelling, there was not a sign of human life to be seen. Overhead the storm still threatened and grumbled; below, the man and the house stood powerless, but undaunted. Far away to the south the sun shone out brightly through a rift in the clouds. "Always God's promise somewhere. God's sign to us that He cares."

Suddenly, out of the inky murkiness to the west a horse came galloping swiftly. In such a scene of desolate solitude, the sight of any living creature came as a surprise, and held one's gaze. Mr. Carlyle watched the creature fascinatedly. "Frightened, I suppose, poor beast," he muttered sympathetically. "Whomever it belongs to should have taken it in; they must have seen the storm coming. Oh!" his words broke off suddenly, for, as the horse drew near, he could see that it had on a bridle and a saddle—a lady's saddle too!

"It must have thrown its rider," he cried anxiously, and pondered helplessly what he could do. How was he to catch the frightened creature without frightening it more, and where, in all that expanse, was he to begin to look for the fallen rider? Then suddenly it came to him that there was something familiar about the horse.

"Peter!" he called, "Peter! Peter! Peter!" He tried to imitate the note and voice Peter's master had used on the day of the picnic. "Peter, good boy, come here." The horse's ears twitched. He had heard him, and his pace slackened. He was really a friendly, tame creature, but a specially violent clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning which had shot across his eyes, had, for the moment, given him such a shock that he had lost his usually sober senses, and flown panic-stricken from the neighbourhood of such horrors. He was not accustomed either to a side-saddle, nor to so gentle a hand upon his mouth.

Already, though, his fears were vanishing, and he was longing for the sound of a human voice and the grip of a hand on his bridle.

"Peter! Peter!" Mr. Carlyle called again. Peter turned swiftly in answer to the call, caught his hoof in the dangling bridle, and fell heavily on the soft, wet turf.

This gave the Vicar his chance. Peter was soon on his feet again, but his bridle was gripped firmly enough now.

"Peter, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Peter was. He stood beside his captor shamed, shaken, genuinely distressed. "I wish you could show me where you dropped your rider, Peter." Peter only flapped his ears, and threw up his head.

Mr. Carlyle got on his back, in order to get a wider view. "I suppose he has come from his home; perhaps I had better go in that direction."

Peter seemed to agree with this decision, and, with apparently recovered spirits, walked on willingly. The Vicar's spirits, though, did not recover so lightly. His eyes swept the moor anxiously, but in vain, and his fears increased, for a rider who had been not much hurt would surely appear soon, coming in search of her horse. If she did not appear it might forebode the very worst of disasters. For more than half an hour they searched, but vainly, then suddenly, far ahead of him, almost out of the ground it seemed, a small white fluttering something appeared, and he quickened Peter's pace to a gallop.

It was Irene who had been Peter's rider, Irene who, recovering from the shock and blow of the fall, had struggled up, and waved her handkerchief in the desperate hope of attracting someone.

She was scratched, bruised and bleeding, and wet to the skin; but her concern was all for Peter, and her one feeling was joy at seeing him alive and sound. "Oh, I am so glad!" she cried in a rapture of relief. "Oh, I am so glad—I could never have gone home and faced grandfather if anything had happened to Peter." Then suddenly she broke down and burst into tears. "Oh, I am so thankful," she sobbed. "I have been nearly crazy with fear!"

"But, my poor child, what about yourself? Peter is all right, but you are hurt—your face is bleeding, you—you——" He could not tell her what a pitiable little object she was. One of her eyes was swelled, and fast discolouring; on her forehead a great lump stood out, scratches decorated her cheek, from which the blood still oozed.

"I—fell on my face," she explained brokenly, "near a bramble bush. I think I have hurt my arm too." Against the increasing pallor the scratches stood out horribly. She was on the point of collapsing again, when Mr. Carlyle picked her up without a word, and seated her on Peter's back. "Try to keep up," he said encouragingly; "hold on to the pummels; I will manage Peter. And try not to think about the accident; give all your attention to holding on; we will go to that cottage over there, and get you some water. They have a pony-cart there, too, I will borrow it and drive you to the Vicarage as quickly as I can. You certainly can't walk, and you can't go all the way to Abbot's Field until you are better. But we will take care of you, Irene. Don't cry any more, my child. You will feel better soon, and you have very much to be thankful for."

"I know, I know!" gasped Irene. "I don't know how to be thankful enough; we might have been killed on the spot. Oh, that lightning! It was awful, perfectly awful. There seemed to be fire all round us, nothing but fire!" She buried her face in her hands, as though to shut out the sight. "It looked as though some awful fiery furnace had opened before us, it was like the place of torment——"

"But God's protecting love was about you. His arm was shielding you."

"I know," said Irene softly, "and that was my only hope. I remember saying, 'From lightning and tempest, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us,' and then I think I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I felt the rain on my face, and the thunder crashing overhead, and my first thought was——" she broke off in sudden shy confusion, and a faint flush rose to her cheeks.

"May not I know, Irene, what your first thought was, when you woke and found yourself still in this world? was it that God had spared you yet, that you might do more work for Him?"

"That was it!" she cried eagerly; "that was my thought—'God has not taken me—He must have something for me to do, and—and——'"

"You mean that, God helping you, you would do it?"

Irene looked away; again the colour rushed into her pallid cheeks.

"Yes," she whispered softly, but could say no more.

"By His help, and in His Name." Mr. Carlyle's hand shook a little as he clasped hers. "Thanks be to Him," he added, with deep feeling. "Irene, my child, never forget this afternoon, nor the vow you have taken."

"I will try never to," said Irene humbly, and then the cottage was reached, and the Vicar lifted her down, and led her into shelter.

After that, matters were soon arranged. One of the big boys at the cottage was to take Peter home, and deliver him over safely, and he was to take a note of explanation and reassurance, and a request for clothes for Irene, which he would bring by train, and then take home the pony and cart which the Vicar was borrowing to transport the poor little patient to the Vicarage.

Irene did not demur at anything. She could only smile the gratitude she felt; after her last outburst she had become exhausted. When lifted into the cart she half sat, half lay in the bottom of it, rolled in blankets, seemingly only half conscious of what was happening.

When the little cart at last drew up at the Vicarage, Audrey was standing at the door looking out. The rain had ceased by that time, and the air was laden with a sweet freshness which told that the storm had passed. When she saw the cart draw up, she thought only that her father had had a lift homewards—as they had hoped he would. Then she saw that he was holding the reins, and was apparently alone in the cart, and at the same moment he caught sight of her and beckoned to her vigorously.

"I have Irene Vivian here," he said. "She has met with an accident. Hold the pony's head, dear, while I lift her out, and carry her into the house. We must get a room ready, and get her to bed as soon as possible, with hot blankets and bottles. You will know what to do, Audrey."

Audrey did not. She did not know in the least what to do. She should have felt flattered by her father's confidence in her, but she only felt ashamed.

And the spare room, where Irene must go! It was she knew, in a state of neglect and confusion. In her anxiety to speak to Faith and Mary, Audrey almost let the pony go, and ran into the house.

Fortunately, though, when Irene was safely deposited on the ground, stiff and bruised though she was, she could, she declared, walk through the garden to the house. "I am not so faint now; I feel better already. Oh, Audrey, I am so sorry to come and give you so much trouble. I am sure I shall be able to get home when—when I have rested. I am nearly all right."

But when she, with the same, reeled and almost fell, Mr. Carlyle picked her up bodily, and carried her quickly into the house. "You are not to talk any more," he commanded peremptorily, "but you are to remember that you are no bother to us whatever, that we are only too pleased to have you, and the more you give us to do, the better we shall be pleased." Then, catching sight of her troubled face as he laid her on the sofa in the dining-room, "Some day we may want your help, and I should not hesitate to ask you for it, Irene, because I should know that it would be a joy to you to give it. Will you believe the same of us, my child?"

Irene looked up at him gratefully. "Oh, yes, yes," she cried, but her glance travelled swiftly from him to Audrey, wanting her assurance too.

"Of course we are very glad to have you," Audrey answered, meeting the eager eyes; but her voice lacked that ring of genuineness which means more than any other; the ring which sounded so clearly in her father's. She knew it, and was sorry; but she could not help it. There was that to be said for Audrey—she was honest. She could not feign a pleasure she did not feel; and she had yet to learn to feel the pleasure which comes with trying to make others happy.

"You couldn't help it," she added lamely; "don't worry about it, Irene," but that seemed only to make matters worse. Irene's face showed that, and her own heart told her so.

Oh, how she longed to be one of the happy-go-lucky, don't-care people, like Faith, who felt nothing but gladness at welcoming people, and were quite unconcerned as to what they were welcoming them to! It was really her care for her visitor's comfort which lay at the bottom of her seemingly cold welcome, her over-anxiety that everything should be as nice as she was accustomed to.

"No, I couldn't help it. But—I think I ought to go home presently. I can manage to, I can really, and mother would be so glad."

Tears came into her eyes. She was feeling so shaken and faint, and in such pain all over, she seemed to lose grip on herself. A sudden longing to be petted and made much of, swept over her. Fortunately at that moment Faith came rushing in.

"What has happened?" she cried anxiously. "I have only just heard that there has been an accident.—Oh, Irene! you poor darling, you do look bad. Here, lean back, and let me arrange the cushions more comfortably. Oh, your poor face, how it must hurt you. Wouldn't it be more comfortable if I bathed it with warm water?"

"We have got to get the spare room ready as quickly as possible," said Audrey, briskly, rousing herself to action. "She is wet through, she must go to bed as soon as she can."

"Here? Irene is going to stay here? Oh, how lovely! I am awfully sorry for you, Irene, but, oh, I am so glad." Faith's face was one beam of welcome. No thought of their unpreparedness troubled her.

"Well, Irene won't be glad, unless we hurry and get a room fit for her to go into," Audrey retorted sharply. "She must be cold and miserable."

"Oh, we will soon get the room straight; she can go into mine if she likes."

"She must have peace and quiet," said Audrey dryly, "and she ought to have a hot bath at once. Granny always made me have one if I got wet; it takes the pain and stiffness out of one's bones."

Faith lifted up one of the poor scratched hands, and looked at it. "We sometimes have mustard in our baths," she said mischievously, "when we have colds, but I don't think we will give Irene mustard in hers now!"

Irene chuckled faintly, though she could not help shuddering. Faith's welcome had raised her spirits considerably. "A hot bath without mustard would be lovely, if it isn't inconvenient. My clothes are soaked through, and I am growing so chilly——"

"Inconvenient!" cried Faith, scornfully, "as though it could be! You ought to be in it by this time, though. Come along at once, or a nice cold you will have, and while you are bathing we will get the bed made, and all the hot-water bottles and hot bricks and things we can find, to put in it!"

"Thank you, but don't cook me," groaned Irene. "When I have had my bath I shall be so hot, I shall be able to warm the bottles instead of the bottles warming me."

Audrey hurried away to begin the preparations, though she had very little idea of what to do. She wanted to be alone, and busy, to try and work off her vexation. Why could not she have welcomed poor bruised, hurt Irene, as Faith had done! She had followed her mood of the moment, thinking only of herself, and she had made an impression, left a feeling, that she would never now be able to wipe away. Oh, it was unendurable to feel so mean, so unlovable, when—when she really did not mean to be either, when she wanted to be so different! At the door of the spare bedroom she turned, and walked swiftly down the stairs again to the dining-room.

"Irene," she said, her voice trembling a little with shyness at her first effort, "I think my nightdresses would fit you best. Would you like a nun's veiling one, or a cotton? I will get one aired by the time you are ready for it."

Faith looked at her sister admiringly, almost enviously. She would have found it very difficult to have provided Irene with the necessary garment, for she had but three to her name, and all were more or less buttonless and torn. If the younger Carlyles had nightgowns enough to go round, they thought themselves fortunate; to have different ones for summer and winter was a luxury they never dreamed of. "Oh—and, Audrey," Faith cried eagerly, "do lend Irene your pretty dressing-gown too."

"I was going to," responded Audrey stiffly—Faith never gave one a chance to be gracious—"if you had given me——" She drew herself up sharply, with a genuine effort to master her vexation.

"I will run up and see about getting the bath ready," said Faith. "It won't take more than ten minutes. Irene, use my room if you will, until your own is ready. Audrey, you will help her to take off her wet boots and stockings, won't you? I'll call Mary to come and make the bed."

Within an hour Irene lay in the bed, rolled up in a blanket, with a hot-water bottle at her back, and a hot brick at her feet, for, after all, there was only one bottle in the house that did not leak, and that was Audrey's. She was very hot, but she felt revived and cheerful.

Faith came into the room with a cup of steaming tea, and some bread-and-butter on a tray. She had profited by Audrey's example sufficiently to remember to put a tray-cloth over it, and to try to make it look dainty. Irene turned a hot but grateful face towards her. "How good you all are to me!" she said.

Audrey was standing by the fire, looking from the creeping flames to the dust upon the mantelpiece. She wished Mary had dusted the room a little. It did not occur to her that Mary could not possibly have found the time; that she had been flying round ever since Irene's arrival making the bed, lighting the fire, pushing furniture into place, putting up curtains, and filling the hot-water bottle; that since then she had spread Irene's clothes to dry, and had made her tea.

"This room is dreadfully dusty," she said at last, feeling that she must apologise for it. "I am very, very sorry, Irene."

"Oh, don't worry about me," said Irene cheerfully. "You leave it until I get up again. I will dust all the house for you then, out of sheer gratitude."

Audrey did not reply, but with heightened colour she walked away, and returned a few minutes later with a duster in her hand. She had always thought she hated dusting, but after all there was, she decided, as she nearly completed her task, some pleasure in it. It was nice to see things grow clean and bright under her hand, and it was such a relief to have the work done, instead of waiting and waiting for someone else to do it, waiting vainly, too, as a rule! And when, a little later, Mrs. Vivian was shown into the room, Audrey felt an even greater pleasure in knowing that all was neat and spotless for her to see.

The relief and the satisfaction brought a glow to her face, and warmth to her manner, such as she seldom showed. For almost the first time in her life she escaped the irritation of seeing them left undone by others, and knew the pleasure of doing things for oneself. As she softly left the room she felt happier than she had all day. Irene, in her nest of blankets, looked up at her mother with eyes full of remorse, mingled with pleasure.

"Poor child! are you in great pain?" Mrs. Vivian leaned down over her daughter and kissed her. She was so agitated she could scarcely speak. Irene drew her left arm out from the blankets, and threw it round her mother's neck.

"Oh, mother, mother, I deserve it all! I deserve ever so much more. I—I ought to be whipped and kept on bread-and-water."

A ghost of a smile flickered over Mrs. Vivian's white face. "We will forgive you this time, but oh, Irene, when I saw Peter being led in riderless I—I——"

Irene drew her mother down to her again. "Mother darling, it shall be a lesson to me. I will never, never go against your wishes again. When I woke up—I think I must have fainted—and knew where I was, and all that had happened, and when I realised that God had spared my life instead of punishing me—oh, mother, I promised Him that I would dedicate the rest of it to Him, and to you."

With a low cry of deep joy Mrs. Vivian clasped her little daughter in her arms, her emotion too great for words. And so they remained, heart to heart, cheek to cheek, talking in soft, low tones, talk too sacred and precious for other ears to hear, until at last they were brought back to everyday things by a gentle knock at the door.

"May we come in?" asked Audrey, opening it a little way. "We have brought you some tea, Mrs. Vivian. We thought you might be tired."

"Oh, how kind!" Mrs. Vivian looked up at her gratefully. "I feel as though I should enjoy a cup of tea, as I never have in my life before." With her relief at finding Irene's injuries so comparatively slight and with her heart full of the deep, almost sacred joy their talk had brought to her, the paleness had vanished from her cheeks, and the happiness in her heart glowed in her pretty, kind eyes.

"Audrey dear, do you think it would be possible for your mother to see me for a little while? I want so much to thank her for all the kindness you are all showing to my bad girl. And as it seems that she will have to stay here for a day or so, I want to ask her to make an exchange, and spare me one of you in Irene's place."

"Oh!" Audrey's heart leaped with pleasure. A visit to 'The Orchard' would be lovely—to have servants, horses and carriages, gardens, and all the comforts and luxuries she loved so much; what joy! And she had nice clothes, too, and everything suitable for such a visit. But Mrs. Vivian, little dreaming of the thoughts rushing through Audrey's head, brought her castles tumbling to the ground.

"I know I must not ask for you, for you have not long been home, and you cannot be spared, but I thought, perhaps, Faith would come, or the little ones—it might be a change for them, and would make a little less work for you here."

She looked at Audrey inquiringly. For a second there was silence, then "I am afraid Faith could not be spared—either," Audrey answered in a tone Mrs. Vivian could not understand, it seemed to hold both shame and triumph. "She—she is really more useful than I am—much more," she added emphatically, as though to press home the stab she was dealing herself.

A wave of hot colour poured into her cheeks, then ebbed away, but the glow in her heart remained, for she had once more conquered herself.



CHAPTER XI.

Never in their lives before had Debby and Tom been thrown into such a state of such rapturous joy and excitement as when they heard of the invitation which had been accepted for them, and never, never had they been called upon to face so bitter a disappointment as that which befell them before the week was out, when news came to the Vicarage that the visit must be postponed indefinitely, for measles had broken out at 'The Orchard.' One maid was down with it, and Daphne was, they feared, sickening. And if Daphne developed it, Keith was almost certain to follow suit.

"It is almost too dreadful to be borne!" cried Debby tragically, meaning the disappointment, not the measles. "Don't you think it is only a bad dream, and we'll wake up presently?"

Tom shook his head gloomily. "I'm awake right enough," he said, "so are you."

"I wish I wasn't; I'd never been asked away before, in all my life, and there would have been the train, and the donkey cart when we got there, and a s-s-swing in the orchard. Oh, Faith, isn't it dreadful, that such things can happen, and all because of measles—as if measles are anything to make a fuss about."

"Some people make such a fuss about a little thing," scoffed Tom, "I wouldn't have minded going and catching them. I've got to have them some time, I s'pose, so I might as well have had them there as at home— better, too!"

"I doubt if Mrs. Vivian would have thought so," said Faith. "Cheer up, both of you, and try not to mind. Perhaps Mrs. Vivian will ask you again some day, and you see you can't go, neither can Irene, so we shall have her here for a long time yet—and won't that be jolly!"

When Audrey had first heard the news she had breathed a sigh of relief and sympathy. Relief, when she thought of the scanty, shabby little outfits which were all they had to take with them. Sympathy with their disappointment. She knew what it was to feel the latter.

Irene was frankly dismayed. To land oneself suddenly on new friends for a day or two was bad enough, but to be told that you must not return home for some weeks—indeed, for no one knew how long—was most embarrassing.

"I am so sorry," she said apologetically to Mrs. Carlyle, "I expect mother will arrange for me to go somewhere as soon as possible, I—I hope it won't be very inconvenient my staying here until I hear."

Mrs. Carlyle smiled at her affectionately. "Inconvenient! Irene, dear, how could it be. We should simply rejoice to have you as long as you can stay—that is, of course, if you would like to. The Vicar wrote to your mother at once to know if we might keep you during the time, and we are waiting to hear."

"Like to! Oh, Mrs. Carlyle, how good you are to me! I would like it better than anything," she cried enthusiastically, bending down to give the invalid a warm kiss. Then, turning swiftly, she caught up Baby Joan and danced with her round the room. "Oh, isn't it perfectly lovely, Joan darling. I am going to stay with you, Joany Carlyle, for weeks, instead of going to strangers. If you were only half as pleased as I am you would clap your hands and sing."

"She would if she understood," laughed Mrs. Carlyle. "I would too, if I could."

Irene stood still suddenly in the middle of her pirouetting. "Would you? Would you, really?" she exclaimed; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. "Are you really sure I shall not be a bother?"

"Indeed, indeed, I love to have you here, darling." There was no mistaking the meaning in Mrs. Carlyle's voice. "It is like letting sunshine into the house. We all love having you—and it is so good for the girls. They have no real companions here."

When, a few minutes later, Irene went downstairs and into the garden, her face was grave, but her eyes still glowed. "Sunshine!" Mrs. Carlyle had called her. She was like sunshine in the house. What a glorious thing to have said of one—and she had done nothing to deserve it either. Well, here was her chance. She had not been in the Vicarage those few days without learning that there was a lot to be done, and few to do it. Here was her opportunity!

Faith was in the garden looking at the flower bed. "I can't understand it," she said, in a puzzled voice, as Irene drew dear, "there seem to be seedlings, or something, coming up all over it. They look like real flowers, don't they? Or do you think they are weeds? If they are, they ought to be pulled up, but I don't like to until I know."

"Oh no, let them stay. I am sure they aren't weeds, Faith. Look at those, they are sweet peas, I am certain they are, and this is young mignonette."

Faith's face was as puzzled as her voice. "It is a most extraordinary thing about this bed," she said soberly, "I made it, and then Audrey didn't like it because we hadn't any nice bedding plants for it, so I put in a few things that I had given me, phloxes and sunflowers, and wallflowers, and—oh, I forget quite what, but I forgot all about watering them, and I thought they were dead, but they aren't. They pulled through somehow; I never planted any seeds, though, I am quite sure. Yet the bed is getting to look quite full! I think the fairies must have come at night, and sown them!"

"Or the brownies," suggested Irene. "We won't watch for them, then perhaps they will plant some more. They stop working if they are watched!" she laughed.

"Well, it's brownies, or something, and I want to thank them," said Faith gratefully, if ungrammatically. "I want to dreadfully. What are you smiling at, Irene?"

"Was I smiling? Oh Fay, I can't help it, I am so happy. Your father and mother have asked my mother to let me stay here with you until the measles have gone. Isn't it lovely of them!"

"Have they? Have they really?" Faith's face was a picture of glad surprise. "Oh, Irene, how lovely! how jolly! They hadn't said a word to us. I expect they knew how disappointed we should be, if your mother said 'no.' But she mustn't say 'no '! She must let you stay. It will be perfectly lovely having you here." And she threw her arms round Irene's waist and hugged her. "Oh, I am so glad," she sighed, "I don't know what to do!"

"Keith and Daphne will be wild with envy," said Irene, returning the hug. "Poor dears, they will have a dull time, I am afraid."

"We will write them letters, to cheer them up, shall we? and send them all sorts of things—for fun."

Audrey came out and joined them, "Mother has told me," she said. "Oh, Irene, I am so delighted." Her pleasure shone in her face, and her speaking eyes. Irene already knew the worst there was to know of the shabbiness of the home, and Audrey's heart was at rest. "I think, though, you ought to come in now, and lie down, you know you are not really well yet."

"You must give me something to do then, sewing, or darning, or something. I simply could not lie still doing nothing. I am too excited. Haven't you some stockings that need mending? We always have a basketful at home."

"I took the basket up to mother a day or two ago," said Audrey. "We didn't get them done, somehow, so mother said she would try what she could do. But don't bother about work, Irene. Lie down and read, I am going up to my room to work for a little while."

"And I must put Joan in her cot for her morning nap," said Faith, taking that little person from Irene's arms.

Audrey strolled away to her beloved attic, Faith to her bedroom, and Irene was left alone to go to her bedroom, or the dining-room, as she pleased. For a few seconds she lay on the sofa in the dining-room, thinking; then suddenly she got up, and went softly up the stairs to Mrs. Carlyle's room.

"Come in," said the gentle voice, in answer to her knock. "Oh, Irene, is that you. Are you come up to sit with me? How nice?" The invalid's face brightened perceptibly.

"I came for the stocking basket," said Irene. "I am ordered to keep still, but I simply can't while I am so excited. I feel I want to be doing something to work it off me. Would you mind if I sat here with you for a little while, Mrs. Carlyle, and did some darning?"

"It would be the greatest pleasure to me, dear. I was longing for someone to talk to. I tried to mend some of the stockings myself, but I only managed to do one pair for Debby to put on. My eyes ached so. One seems to twist them if one tries to do fine work when lying down."

"Of course one does. Mrs. Carlyle," eagerly, "will you let the stocking basket be my charge while I am here? I love to have a big pile of work to do, and make my way through it. Would it bother you if I worked up here sometimes?"

"Not in the least, dear child. There is nothing I should enjoy more. I often long for company, but ours is a busy household. With only one servant, it takes the girls all their time to keep the house in order."

Irene stooped low over the stocking-basket, lest her face should reveal anything.

"Of course it is too much for them," Mrs. Carlyle went on anxiously, "and we shall have to have in extra help when the holidays are over, and their new governess comes. They can't possibly do their lessons and the housework as well. Next year I hope to be about again, and able to take some of the load off their shoulders, but," with a little sigh, "next year is a long way off."

"I wish I could help," said Irene. "I love housework, and keeping things nice. I am longing for the time when we shall have a house again. Mrs. Carlyle, have you any dark blue darning wool that I can mend Tom's stockings with?"

"No, dear, I have not, I have taken up that pair ever so many times and put them down again because I had no wool to mend them with."

Irene thrust her hand in, "Um!" Someone had not been so particular, she thought, as her eye fell on a brown darn on the heel, and a black one at the back of the leg.

"Irene, don't you think you could drop the formal name, and call me 'Aunt Kitty'? I wish you would, dear. I have no nieces or nephews of my own, and I have always longed to be 'aunt' to someone."

"Why, of course I will, I should love to, Aunt Kitty—don't you have a glass of milk about this time? Shall I ask for it for you?"

"Thank you—I think they must have forgotten it." She did not add that five days out of every seven the glass of milk was forgotten either entirely, or until it was so close on dinner-time that she could not take it.

"I won't bother Mary to bring it, I will go and get it, if you don't mind my going into the kitchen?"

Mrs. Carlyle was of the same happy, easy-going nature as Faith, and minded nothing of that sort. Even if she had known the state of muddle the kitchen was in, she would not have been troubled by Irene's going into it.

But though the muddle was there, as usual, and worse than usual, Irene did not see it. The shock she received when she opened the kitchen door, drove everything else from her thoughts, and it was not until some time later that she had eyes for the kitchen itself.

In the middle of the floor sat Mary, propped against the table leg, while on either side of her knelt Audrey and Faith, trying to staunch the blood which flowed freely from Mary's hand. Mary's face was as white as chalk, her eyes nearly popping out of her head with alarm. Audrey and Faith looked almost as frightened.

When Irene appeared on the scene they turned their faces to her in evident relief. "Oh, Irene, Mary has cut her poor hand fearfully, and—and it will not stop bleeding, and we don't know what to do, we have been here ever so long, and it isn't stopping a bit. Do you think we ought to send for Doctor Gray?"

"I shouldn't think so," said Irene reassuringly, "not if it is an ordinary cut. Let me see it, may I?"

"Oh, no, you mustn't look at it. You will faint!"

"I don't faint from that kind of thing, I am used to it. We are always damaging ourselves, and I doctor them all. Anyhow, I know that Mary ought not to hold her hand down like that,"—gently raising it to check the flow—"it will bleed for hours if she does. Have you any soft rag?"

"Plenty, I should think," Audrey replied sarcastically, "but I don't know where to find any." Irene, looking at her closely for the first time, saw that she was white to the lips, and trembling.

"Look here," she said quickly, "I came down for a glass of milk for your mother, and some biscuits, will you take them up to her? She will be waiting, and wondering what has become of me. Then you stay with her and talk to her. Don't tell her what has happened—simply say that I am busy. Don't come down again, Audrey, you will be fainting if you stay here, and we can manage by ourselves. Don't cry, Mary, it will be all right. I am sure it will."

"I—I believe I've taken a bit of my finger right off," sobbed Mary. "I am sure I have, p'raps it's gone. Do look, miss."

"Oh no, it isn't gone. Don't scream so, Mary, you will frighten Mrs. Carlyle and make her very ill. Now just be as plucky as ever you can while I dress it. Faith, where can I find some rag?"

"Oh, I don't know," groaned Faith. "Irene, do you think a piece of her finger has really come off?"

"No!" Irene, who had been examining the wound, spoke almost impatiently. "The cut is a deep one, but it will be all right in a few days. Do try and find some rag or bandage, Faith. I want to bind it up as tightly as possible to stop the bleeding. If you haven't any I will get one of my handkerchiefs."

Faith, much relieved in her mind, ran off hurriedly. Mary's sobs became quieter, but as she grew less frightened about herself, she grew more worried about her work.

"Whatever shall I do!" she wailed, "there's the dinner to get, and I've got to make cake to-day! Oh, what can I do! We'll have to have in a woman, and see what that costs!"

Poor Mary's innocent words brought Irene's wandering thoughts to a standstill. Mary's concern for her master's purse touched her, and filled her with a deep respect for the simple, loyal, country girl.

"Oh, but we need not do that, Mary," she said kindly, "you will be able to use your other hand quite well, and this one too, for some things. Of course, you can't make cake, but I can. I often made it at home; and I can cook the dinner too, if you will tell me what you want."

"Oh! but Miss Irene, I couldn't let you!" Mary was so taken aback she forgot all about the cut hand, and let Irene bathe it without once wincing. "Oh, miss! I—I couldn't. The master wouldn't like it, and— and——"

"The master need not know anything about it, at least, not until it is done, then I will ask him if he approves of his new cook. I expect he will say he prefers his old one! Now Mary—you are not to say anything about it. I love cooking, and I want to practise, and I think it will be the greatest fun."

Faith came dashing in with an old pillow-case in her hand. "You will have to use some of this, I am afraid. I know there is a heap of real rag somewhere, but I can't stay to look any further. Joan has pulled over the water-jug and drenched herself to the skin. I must fly!"

Irene looked at Mary, and Mary looked at the pillowcase. "Seems a pity to tear that up," she said anxiously, "it wants a bit of mending, but it is one of the best. If you will wait a minute, miss, I think I know where I can put my hand on a piece," and Mary scrambled to her feet, forgetful of her faintness.

"Law me! 'tisn't nothing to have made such a fuss about, after all," she remarked shamefacedly, as Irene bathed the cut in clean cold water, "I thought for certain the top of my finger was lying round on the floor somewhere, and the thought of it made me feel that ill."

"Well, don't think about it any more," laughed Irene, as she deftly tore up strips of linen, "it is too horrid. Tell me now if I am binding your finger too tightly. There! Isn't that neat! I daresay a doctor or a nurse would laugh at it, but if it answers the purpose, that is all that really matters, isn't it? Now I am going to make you a sling."

"But I can't use it if it is in a sling, miss."

"No, that is just why I am going to give you one. I want you to keep your hand up, at any rate for an hour or two, to prevent its beginning to bleed again. There, I am sure that looks like a First-Aid professional sling. Now, when I have washed, I want you to tell me what you were going to cook for dinner to-day."

"There's a round of beef to roast, miss, and fruit to stew, and a milk pudding to make."

"That is easy enough, I feel I would like something more difficult. I daresay, though, I shall find it enough, by the time I have done! Do you have a suet pudding with the beef?"

"No-o, miss, we—we haven't had one lately. I believe they used to, but— well, I don't seem able to make them proper, so I never tries now."

"Well, I daresay everyone would like one—the children will, for certain. I'll show you how I have made them at home, then you will be able to do it another time. My mother taught me."

"Nobody never taught me," said Mary, apologetically, "I just had to pick things up as I could."

"Don't they teach you at school?"

"Oh no, miss. I learnt a lot about hygiene, and how to draw an apple, but I was never no good with a pencil—and what good would it do me if I could draw apples? Mother said, 'better fit they taught me how to peel one properly.'"

Irene laughed. "Well, it does seem that it would have done you more good to have learnt how to grow them, or how to cook them! Now, to begin! First of all I am going to wash the breakfast things, or we shall have no room to move."

Mary looked really shocked. "Oh no, miss! You mustn't. Just think about your 'ands."

"I am thinking about my hands," said Irene cheerfully. "Did you ever hear about the Thanksgiving of the Hands, Mary?"

Mary, looking puzzled, shook her head.

"Well, if you feel very, very glad and grateful for something, you can show your gratitude and your gladness through your hands."

"Oh, music!" said Mary, with sudden inspiration.

"No, it is something that everyone's hands can do. It is just making them do some little service as a thanksgiving. I am very, very glad, Mary, that your accident is no worse than it is, and I am very, very grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle and all of them, and to you too, Mary, for being so kind to me, but most of all I am grateful to God for sparing my life that day, and for sending Mr. Carlyle to me that day, and giving me such kind friends when I needed them so badly, and I feel I can never give thanks enough—except through my hands. So, the more I have to do the better I am pleased. Do you understand, Mary?"

"Yes, miss," said Mary huskily, and to Irene's surprise there were tears in her eyes. "I—I've often felt like that, miss, but I—never could say it, and I—I never met anyone else who did. But what about me, miss? I am sure I ought to be grateful for having you come to help me like this, yet I don't seem to be doing anything."

"But you will—you are always doing something, Mary. Now you can tell me where the things are kept—the soap and the dish-pan, and the dishcloth."

"And I can put the things away in their places," said Mary, somewhat comforted.

Audrey, after being banished from the kitchen, sat with her mother for a little while, but her thoughts were so pre-occupied, and she sat so long gazing abstractedly out of window, evidently hearing nothing that was said, that presently Mrs. Carlyle gave up trying to talk to her, and gradually fell asleep. Recalled to herself by the sound of the deep, regular breathing, Audrey rose, and tiptoeing softly from the room made her way swiftly to her beloved attic.

Faith, after a busy half-hour spent in mopping up water from the floor, and changing Joan's wet clothes, popped that young person into her cot to take her long-delayed nap, and laid her own weary body on her own little bed beside her.

"I must rest for just a few minutes," she sighed, "and then I will go down and see how Mary's hand is getting on." She picked up from the table beside the bed, the alluring book she was in the middle of.

It certainly was a very jolly story, perfectly fascinating, but somehow she could not get on with it. She read a few lines, and then the next thing she knew, she was finishing it off in her own brain. She tried again and the same thing happened, then at last when she was trying to read the end of the paragraph she had begun so many times, her eyelids dropped before she could even find it, the book slipped from her hand and fell forward on her face, and she had not the strength to hold it up again.

The clang of the dinner-bell was the next thing she was conscious of, and then the savoury smell of cooking. Then she opened her eyes and saw Joan sitting up in her cot, playing with the book she herself had dropped.

Faith sprang off her bed, lifted Joan out of hers, and, untidy as she was, hurried down the stairs. Suddenly the remembrance of Mary's injured hand and the scene in the kitchen came back to her. "I suppose it is all right, as she has got the dinner ready. Oh, Irene!"

Irene came running up the stairs, looking flushed and hurried, but very well pleased. She had a big apron on over her cotton frock, and as she came along she was turning down her sleeves.

"I've got to wash my hands and tidy my hair, and I mustn't keep you waiting," she said as she whisked past. "I won't be more than a moment."

Audrey, descending from her attic, joined the little group. Her head was full of what she had been writing, and it took her a second or two to realise things.

"Oh, Irene, I hope you haven't been dull. I never meant to leave you alone so long, but I was working, and—and forgot. How hot you look. What have you been doing?"

"I am rather. I have been cooking. Oh, I have had a lovely time. Do run down and look at my pudding—but I must fly, or everything will be cold!" and Irene whisked away and into her bedroom.

Audrey and Faith did not rush down at once to look at Irene's pudding. They looked at each other instead, and in the eyes of each dawned a look of shame and remorse.

"I quite forgot," gasped Faith. "I never remembered," gasped Audrey, "was Mary—couldn't Mary?"

But Faith had flown, leaving Joan to toddle after her. In the hall she met Mary hurrying to the dining-room with a big dish. Her hand was bound up, but was out of the sling, and she looked quite gay and cheerful.

"Oh, Mary!" she said, following her into the room, "I never thought about your not being able to manage, I am so sorry. It is not much use to be sorry now, though, is it?"

"No," said Mary, laughing, "it isn't, Miss Faith—but it's all right, Miss Irene helped me. Oh, she is a clever young lady, Miss Faith, and so nice, she—she will wash dishes, and make cake, and sweep the kitchen, or—or anything, and be a lady all the time!"

"Cook! Can Miss Irene cook?"

"I should think she can, miss. It's a long time since we had a dinner so nice, or—or my kitchen either," added Mary honestly, as she hurried out to it again. "You come and look, Miss Faith. She's washed away all the dishes and has made the place look like a little palace."

"Washed the dishes!" Audrey groaned in bitterness of spirit, as she and Faith followed Mary out. In spite of dinner having just been cooked there, Audrey saw at a glance that this was the kitchen of her dreams—the neat, clean kitchen she had longed for, but had never attempted to create.

Mary looked at them both, her face glowing. Irene's interest and encouragement had quite inspired her; and her practical help had shown her the way. Every one of her few chance words, too, had gone home.

"'I can't bear to see a kitchen littered with dirty dishes, can you, Mary?' she said to me. I hadn't thought about it before, but when it was put to me like that I felt all of a sudden that I couldn't bear to see it either. 'And the longer they are left the nastier they are, aren't they?' she said, and that's true too, Miss Faith. 'The kettle is boiling, and we can have some nice hot soapy water. We will see how soon we can get everything cleared away,' she says, and up she turns her sleeves, and— well, she washed all those things as well as I could myself, and better. Look at the shine on them, Miss Faith."

"I am looking," said Faith; but it was something else that she saw the shining of. The shining of a brave spirit, and a warm heart—of an example that she never forgot.

"Miss Irene wouldn't let me do more than put the things back in their places, 'cause of my hand."

Without another word Audrey turned and walked away. The shame in her heart burned in her cheeks, and in her eyes. "And I—I talk, and do nothing. I tell other people what they ought to do—Irene helps them do it." And through her mind passed the thought; "What kind of dinner would they all have had, if they had to rely on her? What would the kitchen have been like at that moment, if it had been left to her?"

Debby came rushing out of the dining-room tempestuously. "Have you made yourself ready for dinner?" asked Audrey, laying a detaining hand on her.

"Yes, yes, ever so long ago. We are waiting for you. There is the nicest pudding for dinner that we have had for ever so long, but daddy says we mustn't begin it till you all come. Oh, do make haste."

Irene came flying down the stairs. "I am so sorry to be so long," she cried apologetically, "the string of my apron got into a knot, and I really began to think I should have to wear it at dinner."

"I am late, and have no excuse," thought Audrey dejectedly. "I never have one."

"I shall be glad to see anyone, no matter what they are wearing," said Mr. Carlyle, coming to the door. "Who is that talking of kitchen aprons?"

Irene looked at him with merry eyes laughing above her flushed cheeks. "Please, sir, it's the new cook," she said, dropping him a curtsey.



CHAPTER XII.

"Ugh! how horrid they feel! I think that is the very worst part of dish-washing, don't you, Irene?"

Audrey sat in a kitchen chair with her hands held out stiffly before her. She had just washed all the beautiful things, and Irene had wiped them. Now, after wiping out the dish-pan, and spreading the dish-cloth to dry, she had sat down while she dried her hands on the runner. She was tired, and her feet ached; the weather was hot, and she had been busy ever since she had got up.

For more than a fortnight now, she and Irene had inaugurated a new state of affairs at the Vicarage, and, to her surprise, she found that she was growing to enjoy the work. She certainly enjoyed the results, and felt proud of them. And, oh, how proud and happy she was when her father remarked on the improvement.

There were disagreeables too; there was no denying the fact. And one of them was the uncomfortable roughness of her hands.

"Rub them with salt," advised Irene, briskly, as she hung the shining jugs and cups on their hooks on the dressers. "Then rub some cold cream or glycerine into them."

"But I don't keep a chemist's shop," laughed Audrey. "I have only a little glycerine."

"Well, that is splendid if it suits you. Rub some into your hands while they are wet, and then rinse it off again. When I have my own little house I shall have a shelf put up close to where I wash my dishes, and vases, and things——"

"Close by the tap, and the sink, and the draining-board," interrupted Audrey, eyeing their own.

"Yes, close by, and I shall keep on it a bottle of glycerine, a cake of pumice soap, some lemon and glycerine mixed, and—oh, one or two other things that I shall think of presently. And every time I wash my hands I shall rub in a little glycerine—then my skin will keep quite nice. Of course, I shall have a whole array of gloves to put on when I do dirty work. I shall have silver-cleaning gloves, black-leading gloves, dusting gloves, and gardening gloves."

"How will you get them? Buy them?"

"Oh, no. I shall use my own old ones, and I shall beg some of grandfather. One can easily get old gloves. I have begun to collect some already."

"I can't, they are almost as hard to get as new ones. You see, we wear ours, just every-day wear, until they are past being good for anything. And father never wears any, except woolly ones in very cold weather, and they are too thick and clumsy for housework."

"Um, yes. I will send you some of grandfather's. He uses a lot, he rides so much. When I have my house——"

Audrey laughed. "That wonderful house of yours! How perfect it will be!"

"It will be a perfect dear; but I don't want it to be perfect in any other way—not at first, I mean. I want to make it so. Well, as I was saying when you rudely interrupted me by scoffing—when I have a house of my own, you shall come to stay with me, and you shall have breakfast in bed every morning; and you shall not touch a duster, or wash a dish, or make a bed. Oh, Audrey! it is going to be such a dear little gem of a place, with large sunny windows opening on to the garden, and a balcony outside each bedroom."

"How lovely!" sighed Audrey. "I wish you had it now. I'd love to be sitting in one of your balconies, looking down at your flowers. Of course, you would have crowds of flowers?"

"Oh, crowds—and apple-blossom, and honeysuckle, and pear and cherry trees."

"I would sit there and read, and write and write. Oh, Irene, I think I should go crazy with delight."

"No, you would not," laughed Irene. "When I saw you getting so I would come and put a wet dishcloth in your hands, and bang a wash-bowl behind you. That would bring you down to sober earth again."

Audrey groaned, and laughed. "I wonder when, or if ever, you will have your little paradise," she questioned wistfully.

"Oh, I shall have it, but not for rather a long time yet. At least, I am afraid it will be a long time. You see, I have to work for it first, and I don't leave off lessons for another year yet. Then I am going to study Domestic Science, and then I shall begin to earn money. You see, I have got to earn enough to buy my cottage, before I can have it."

Audrey groaned again. "Why, you will be ninety, and I shall be eighty-nine—far too old to sit on a balcony—it will be too risky. And if you are still energetic enough to bang your wash-bowl, I shall be too deaf to hear it."

"Indeed, I shall not be ninety. I am going to try hard to be a lecturer, and I shall get quite a lot of money, and grandfather says he will sell me the cottage—he has got the very one I want—for a hundred pounds, as soon as I am twenty-one. Won't it be lovely, Audrey?"

"Lovely!" sighed Audrey. "Oh, Irene, how splendid to have something like that to work for."

"It is. Why don't you do the same? It makes life seem so splendid, so interesting and beautiful. You try it too, Audrey."

"Oh, but I couldn't," said Audrey, wistfully, "there is so much to do here——"

"But at the end of the twelve months, when you go back to your grandmother?"

"Granny would not hear of it. She can't bear the idea of girls—women— working like that, lecturing, I mean. She doesn't mind their being governesses, if they have to, but they must not be anything else." Audrey paused for a moment. "I am not going back to granny, though," she added softly.

"What?" Irene really gasped with astonishment. "I thought—oh, Audrey, won't you be very unhappy? You loved it so. I thought you were counting the days."

"So I was, but I am not now. I am going to stay here. Mother needs me more—and there is so much to do. And I know it will be better for mother not to have hard work to do, even when she is quite well again; and if Faith and I take care of the house and the children, mother will be able to go on with her writing. She loves it, and it is such a help."

Irene stood leaning against the kitchen table, gazing thoughtfully before her. "I think it is fine of you, Audrey," she said earnestly. "You are right; but it is fine of you."

Audrey coloured hotly with pleasure, but: "No it is not," was all she said, "it is only what you would do."

"But I love the work, you don't. I do not want to do any other—you long to, I know."

Audrey groaned. "Oh, Irene, I simply ache with longing to write. I have stories and stories in my brain, and I feel sometimes as though my head will burst if I don't write them down. I would sit up all night, or get up very, very early in the morning to write them, but I am always so sleepy, I can't keep my eyes open. I tried once or twice, but I found I was only putting down nonsense."

"There is one thing," said Irene comfortingly, "you are very young—there is plenty of time. Perhaps when Mrs. Carlyle is better, and you have done with schooling, you will be able to have more time."

"But it is now—now, that I want it," cried Audrey, springing to her feet. "Oh, I must tell you, Irene. Do you remember those magazines granny bought me, and I lent to you in the train that day?" Irene nodded. "Well, in one—The Girl's World—there was a prize of three guineas offered for the best original Christmas play for children to act." Audrey hesitated a moment, and coloured again beneath Irene's now eager eyes.

"Yes, yes," said Irene.

"Well,"—Audrey in her nervousness was twisting the kitchen 'runner' into cables, and binding her arms up with it—"I began to write one for it. I—I longed to so—I had to. I wanted to write the play, and I wanted to earn the money. Oh, I wanted it ever so badly—to help father."

"Well?" Irene gasped breathlessly, "are you doing it?"

"I began it—but I have had to drop it. I wrote the first scene—I had just finished it that day Mary cut her finger, and you cooked the dinner. But I have scarcely touched it since. One wants a good long time at it; five minutes now and then are no good. But there has been so much else to do, and now I feel—I feel quite guilty if I try to get more."

"Poor Audrey!" Irene murmured sympathetically. "I am sure you oughtn't to feel guilty. If one feels as strongly about any kind of work as you do, I think it shows that one is meant to do it. Don't you?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Audrey, with a little puzzled, weary sigh. She rose to her feet, hung up the 'runner,' and drew towards her a big basket of peas that Job Toms had brought in from the garden. "I think this is what I am meant to do, and, after all, it is—well, I daresay it helps just as much as the prize-money would, even if I were lucky enough to get it."

Irene did not answer, but began shelling peas too. She worked in an abstracted manner though, and was evidently lost in thought.

"Audrey," she said at last, "I am sure you ought to compete for that prize, and I can't see why you can't have a nice long quiet afternoon every day of the week."

"I do then! On Fridays I have to prepare my Sunday School lesson——"

"Well, every other day then."

"I take the children out while Faith sits with mother, or I sit with mother."

"Well, I will take the children out, or play with them indoors. I would love to; and you can have a clear two or three hours every afternoon. Do take them, Audrey, for your writing. When I have gone home it may not be so easy. Oh, Audrey, how grand it sounds. And some day, when it is finished, we will all act it—wouldn't that be perfectly splendid?"

Audrey's face was alight with excitement; her grey eyes glowed.

"But," she objected, "but——" She hesitated again. "It will probably be no good—a poor, silly thing——"

"You can't possibly tell until you have written it," said Irene, silencing her nervous doubts. "There—there are nine peas in a pod for you, for luck."

"There is no luck in that sort of thing."

"There is for the person who buys them; nine nice fat round peas, instead of three and a dwarf!"

Mary came in with her bucket and kneeler. "Those steps do pay for a bit of extra doing," she remarked, complacently. "Since I've been able to give more time to them, they've improved ever so. You've no idea, Miss Irene."

"Oh, yes I have," laughed Irene. "We have more than an idea, haven't we, Audrey? The steps catch our eye every time we pass, they have improved so. Why, there are Faith and the children back from their walk. Oh, my, how we have been gossiping."

Faith and the children came strolling in at the back door.

"We came through the kitchen garden," said Faith, "and I have been talking to Jobey Toms, and what do you think? He has actually remembered at last that there is another garden, and 'it ain't no credit to nobody.' I told him that everyone had noticed that for a long time past, and hurt his feelings dreadfully. At least, he said I had. Anyhow, he is going to keep the grass cut and the bushes trimmed, and he is actually going to make a flower bed on the other side of the path."

"Whatever is the meaning of it?" gasped Audrey, looking almost alarmed.

Faith laughed. "I think someone has been twitting him about the way he keeps it, or rather, doesn't keep it. He began to me about it directly he saw me. 'I can't put up with that there front garden no longer,' he said, 'a one-eyed thing. I am going to make it look more fitty by the time the missus is able to come out and see it, or—or I dunno what she'll think of me for 'lowing it to go on looking such a sight. I'm going to cut a bed t'other side of the path, Miss Faith, and make a 'erbashus border.' I nearly tumbled down in the path, I had such a shock."

"I did not know Jobey knew what a herbaceous border is," said Audrey.

Faith chuckled. "He doesn't. He thinks it is another name for a herb-bed. He has got hold of the idea from someone, poor old man. He told me he had been talking to John Parkins, 'what's come 'ome from Sir Samuel Smithers's place, where he's 'ead gardener, and John 'e don't seem able to talk of nothin' but his 'erbashus borders, just as if we 'adn't never 'eard of 'em before. Why, I 'ad a 'erb-bed before ever 'e was born, and for 'im to be telling me what mould to use! I never! I soon let 'im see I wasn't goin' to be taught by no youngsters, even if they did grow their 'erbs by the 'alf mile.'" Faith imitated the old man's speech and indignation to the life. "''Alf a mile of 'erbashus border, 'e said 'e'd laid out—and expected me to believe 'im, I s'pose! I says to un, says I: 'I s'pose your Sir Samuel's a bit of a market gardener,' says I. He pretended to laugh, but I could see 'e didn't like it, and I stopped his bragging, anyway. These fellows, they go away for a bit, and they come back talking that big there's no 'olding with 'em. But, any'ow, we can do with a bit more 'erb, and we're goin' to 'ave it, Miss Faith, and when he comes 'ome next time I warrant I'll show 'im a bed of parsley as'll take the consate out of 'un!'"

Audrey's laughter changed to a cry of dismay. "What can we do? We don't want a herb-bed from the front door to the gate. It is useful, perhaps, but it is not pretty, and as sure as fate, Jobey would plant chibbles and spring onions too. He calls them ''erbs,' and loves the taste of them himself above all others."

"We can't explain to him that herbaceous borders and herb-beds are not the same," said Faith. "For one thing, he would not believe that we knew anything about it; but if he did believe it, he would be so mortified he would never get over it."

"Perhaps," suggested Irene, "we could lead him on from lamb-mint to lemon-thyme, and from lemon-thyme to rosemary and lavender—tell him rosemary is good for the hair."

"Job cares nothing about hair," said Audrey hopelessly, "it is so long since he had any he has forgotten what it is like not to be bald. I think it is too bad that after neglecting the garden all these years he should go and do a thing like that. I have always longed for a bed full of bright flowers; so has mother."

Debby and Tom exchanged glances. "Don't you worry, Audrey. Let Jobey make his bed, perhaps the Brownies will come along at night, and fill it with seeds."

"He would only pull them up, as soon as they showed above ground."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't, he'd think they were young herbs—until it was too late. Then we'd get father to let them stay." Debby was quite hopeful.

"No," burst in Tom eagerly, "I know what we'll do. We'll tell him to leave them 'cause mother likes them. He'd do anything for mother."

Audrey went to the cupboard, and took down a tumbler. "I am going to take up mother's glass of milk now," she said. There was a new note in her voice, a new light in her eye. Irene's encouragement had filled her heart and brain again with the joy of creating something with her own hand and pen; with the hope of helping others in the way in which help was so greatly needed—and by her own work too. But what added most of all to her new pleasure in her work—though she was not yet old enough to realise it—was the zest of contrast, and the happy, satisfying feeling that the time and the opportunity were her own, and not being taken at the expense of others.

"Audrey, I will take up the milk to mother. You look tired already."

"I am rather," sighed Audrey, "and I haven't half done yet. Irene and I are going to make cakes."

Faith seized the tray with the tumbler on it, and, anxious to help, dashed upstairs with it. By the time she reached her mother's room a considerable quantity of the milk was spilled over the nice clean tray-cloth.

"Oh, bother!" she cried impatiently, as, in opening the door, she upset a lot more, "it is such nonsense having tray-cloths and all those faddy things. If I had brought it in my hand, without any tray at all, it wouldn't have mattered."

"Would it not? What do you think I drink milk for, Faith?"

"Why for nourishment, of course. To make you strong."

"Well then, does it not matter if you deprive me of a third of my nourishment, of my strength?"

"Oh, mother!" Faith looked shocked, "of course it does."

"And, apart from that, if you had brought it in your hand, and spilled it, you would have ruined the stair carpets, and you know how very, very hard it would be to get new ones."

"Oh! I hadn't thought of that. I suppose that is why one uses trays. The cloth doesn't matter—that will wash—but I am very sorry I wasted the milk, mother."

"But, darling, the cloth does matter. Everything matters in some way. Someone will have to wash, and starch, and iron it—all extra work—and someone will have to pay for the soap, and the starch, and the fire for heating the water, and the irons. Don't you see, dear, what big consequences our tiniest actions often have?"

Faith sighed. "I wonder if I shall ever learn to be careful," she said, hopelessly.

"Not until you really want to, dear."

"I do want to, mummy. I do! I do!"

"You think you do. Well, to realise that you are not so, is a step forward," and with a soft laugh Mrs. Carlyle put her arm around her little daughter, and drew her to her. "Dear, each of us has a hill to climb, and there has to be a first step; but if we do not quickly take another step forward, we are very apt to slip to the bottom again. If we want to reach the top we must keep on going."

"Mother, I shall bring you your glass of milk every day, and I shall try to bring it more nicely each time. Then, perhaps, I shall remember to take the next step. Now I must run away to look for Joan."

Once again Mrs. Carlyle drew her closer. "My good little Faith," she said softly, "Joan's little second mother. What would she or I have done, darling, without you to take care of us?" And her eyes were misty with tears as she lay back on her cushions.

Faith's eyes were dim, too, as she went softly on her way. "But second mothers have to be always setting good examples, just as real mothers have," she thought. And, by way of beginning, she set about making her bedroom as neat as a new pin.



CHAPTER XIII.

The last day for sending in the 'Plays' was July 31st. That was now but a fortnight off, and Audrey, in a state of feverish nervousness, had completed her last clean copy. She had worked hard each afternoon, and conscientiously, only to be filled at the last with despair and despondence. She had read, re-read, written and re-written it, until she knew every word by heart, and all seemed stale, dull, and trivial.

Irene, coming up to her room one afternoon, had found her with flushed cheeks and swelled eyelids, and despair plainly visible in every line of her face and form.

"It is no good," she groaned. "I shall not send it. I couldn't send anything so dull and foolish. They will only laugh."

"That is what you want them to do, isn't it?" asked Irene, cheerfully.

"Not the kind of laughter I mean. Oh, Irene, it is miserably bad."

Irene shook her head. "I simply don't believe it. You have been through it so often, you can't judge. Will you let me read it? I will tell you quite honestly how it strikes me."

Audrey coloured, but she looked grateful. "If you would care to, but I am ashamed for anyone to see it. And, oh, I am so disappointed, and, oh," throwing herself wearily on her bed, "oh, so tired of it. The mere sight of it almost makes me ill."

"Poor old girl, you are tired and over-anxious. Is this it?" pointing to a little heap of MS. on Audrey's writing-table in the window.

"Yes."

"May I read the old one, too? The first copy you finished, I mean, before you began to alter it."

Audrey opened her desk and took out another heap of paper, tumbled, scribbled over, and evidently much used.

"Now I am going to shut myself up in my room, and," with a laugh and a nod at the despairing author, "I want no-one to come near me until I show myself again."

"Very well," said Audrey, "but I shall not come near you then. I shall be much too nervous."

"Then I will come to you and stalk you down. Look here, Audrey, don't shut yourself up here all the afternoon. You have no writing to do now. Take my advice, and go for a good long walk, and try not to think about the play, or—or anything connected with it. Keep your heart up, old girl. I am sure it is good, even if it won't be the best."

Audrey sighed heavily. She had long since given up hoping that it might be the best, or even second best, or third. To be 'Commended' was an honour she had ceased to hope for. She had written and re-written, and altered and corrected, until all the freshness and originality were gone, and the whole was becoming stiff and stilted, and she was incapable of seeing whether she was improving or spoiling it.

It was with a distinct sense of relief that she gave in to Irene's suggestion, and handed it over to her for her opinion.

And, as soon as Irene was gone, she took her second piece of advice and went out for a walk. By going quietly down the back-stairs to the back-door she escaped from the house unnoticed; then by going through the vegetable garden she got into a little lane which skirted the village, one end of it leading to the moor, the other to the high road to Abbot's Field. Her one idea was to escape meeting anyone. She felt in no mood for talk. She could not force herself to play with the children, or to chatter to the old village people, who would all be at their doors just now, anxious to see someone with whom to gossip. She meant to go up to the moor, where she could be sure of solitude. The air and the peace up there always did her good. The sight of a figure coming towards her made her turn the other way, though. She felt she could not meet anyone, and be pleasant and sociable. She was sorry, for she loved the moor better than any place. However, this other way there was the shade of the trees and the hedges, she consoled herself. And she walked on, well content through the silence and solitude of the hot summer afternoon.

Well content, at last, until suddenly she saw a well-remembered horse and rider coming along the road towards her.

Audrey was vexed. She wanted only to walk and think, and walk and think. But, though she would have found it difficult to realise, it was best for her that the break should come. She had already walked two miles, and, oblivious of everything but her thoughts, and of every thought but one— her play—was as full of nerves, and hopes and fears, as though she had stayed at home.

Mr. Vivian's sturdy common-sense was as good for her as a tonic. At sight of her he reined up Peter and dismounted. "Miss Audrey," he cried, "it is the greatest treat in the world to see you. I have scarcely seen a friend to speak to for weeks. And I was tired to death of my own company. No, I will not shake hands, and we will keep the width of Peter between us, though I am really safer than nine persons out of ten, for I have lived in such an atmosphere of disinfectants I must be saturated through and through. I honestly believe I could not catch a measle, or any other disease, if I wanted to."

"I am not afraid," said Audrey, stroking Peter's soft nose. "How are you all? Are you all out of quarantine?"

"Yes."

"Oh!" Audrey's face fell, and her tone was not one of congratulation.

"You don't seem quite as pleased as we are, Miss Audrey."

Audrey laughed and blushed. "I am—I am, really," she said, looking up at him with an apologetic smile. "But I am afraid I was selfish. I was thinking of Irene. You will want her home now, of course, and—well, I do not like to think of her going. I—we shall miss her horribly."

Mr. Vivian had slipped the reins over his shoulder, and was searching his pockets. "I have a letter here for your mother and father. I was on my way to deliver it. We don't want to part you, but of course we want Irene. We have missed her sadly."

"It has been lovely having her," said Audrey softly. In her overwrought state, she felt inclined to cry at the mere thought of losing her. Indeed, she felt so stupid, so miserable, so tongue-tied, she could not stand there any longer lest the sharp-eyed old gentleman should see the tears in her eyes. What a weak, silly baby she was!

She turned away abruptly as though to resume her walk. "Oh, you are not going yet.—I forgot, of course you were walking away from home. I just wondered——"

She had intended to, for she was tired, and it would be tea-time before she got home, if she did not hurry. But her longing was to go in any direction but his.

"I—I am soon," she said lamely, forcing down her feelings and her tears. "Did you want me to do anything?"

"I just wondered if you would take this note to your parents for me. I have to go to the mill first, and be at the station by five o'clock, and I am afraid I shall hardly do it."

"Of course I will. I beg your pardon. I did not understand."

The old gentleman's kind eyes looked at her very keenly as he handed her the letter. "You don't look very well, Miss Audrey; I hope you aren't going in for measles too! Or have you been working too hard, taking care of Irene? You look tired."

Audrey smiled back at the face so full of sympathy and kindly concern. "I don't think I am really tired," she said, speaking as brightly as she could, "and I am quite sure I am not going in for measles, and I certainly haven't been doing too much for Irene. I have walked rather far, that is all, and it is dreadfully hot, isn't it? I think I will go home now, after all. It must be nearly tea-time."

Tea was laid and waiting for her by the time she reached home. But before she noticed that, her eyes had sought Irene's face, as though she expected to read her verdict there.

Irene's face was beaming. "Splendid," she whispered, reassuringly. Audrey felt as though a great load had been lifted off her heart. "I will just run up and take off my hat and shoes," she said, more gaily than she had spoken for a long time. Irene followed her to her room. "I couldn't wait," she panted, as she reached the top stair. "Oh, Audrey, I do like it; it is lovely. I am sure it—will be one of the best." She wound up with sudden caution, remembering that it would be cruel to raise her hopes too high. "But do send the first one—the untidy one. Copy that one out just as it is; it is ever so much the better of the two. You have tried to improve and improve it until you have improved most of the fun out of it. Now I must fly down to tea. I am so excited, I hardly know what I am doing."

But her excitement was nothing compared with Audrey's. She, in her joy, forgot everything—Mr. Vivian, the letter, the news he had brought, and never remembered either again until some time later, when Mr. Carlyle came in.

"I met your grandfather at the station, Irene," he said at once. "He told me——"

Audrey leaped out of her chair. "Oh, I had quite forgotten," she cried remorsefully. "I am so sorry. I had a letter——" and she darted away and up the stairs, leaving them all startled and wondering. "I don't seem able to think of anybody or anything but that play," she thought. "I shall be glad when I have seen the last of it."

When she went down again she fancied Irene looked at her reproachfully. "How was grandfather looking?" she was asking Mr. Carlyle, "and the others—did he say how they were?"

Audrey felt more and more ashamed. Irene had been so good to her, and this was her return.

"Yes, he said they were all perfectly well now, and they are all going to Ilfracombe for a long change, as soon as they can arrange matters."

Irene clapped her hands ecstatically. "Keith and Daphne will love that, and mother too. Ilfracombe suits her so well. Will they want me to go with them?"

Mr. Carlyle smiled ruefully. "I am afraid so. Where is the letter, Audrey. Have you taken it to your mother?"

"Yes, father, and she wants you."

Mr. Carlyle rose, picked up Baby Joan, and went upstairs with her in his arms, leaving Audrey to tell her tale, and make her apologies to Irene.

Faith came in presently from the garden, where, rather late in the day, she had been tying up the sweet peas and sunflowers Debby and Tom had planted. "Oh, dear, I don't like weather quite as hot as this; it makes one so dreadfully tired," she sighed wearily, as she stretched herself full-length upon the shabby sofa. "Has anyone seen Joan? I ought to be giving her her supper."

Irene looked at her attentively. "Let me give her her supper, and put her to bed to-night, Fay. I would love to. Do let me. She will be quite good with me now."

Faith stirred lazily and half rose. "Oh no—we shall leave everything to you soon, Irene. I can do it quite well. I am not so very tired, really; only hot and limp."

She was very pale, though, and Irene noticed for the first time how white her lips were, and how dark the marks under her eyes. She got up, and, going over to the sofa, pressed Faith back on to the cushions again. "Do let me, Faith," she pleaded, "please. You see, I shall not be able to many times more." And Faith, anxious to give what pleasure she could, let her have her way.

Irene, satisfied, folded her work, and departed. Faith sank down contentedly, and fell into a doze. Audrey sat for a while, wondering what she should do next. "I think I will go up and work at that manuscript, as long as the daylight lasts," she decided; "the sooner it is done the better," and crept softly out of the room, so as not to disturb Faith. But halfway up the stairs she met Irene dashing down like a wild thing.

"Oh, Audrey," she cried, "come quickly! Where is Faith? and, oh, I want Debby and Tom too. Such news! Oh, do call them. Mr. Carlyle wants you all." But the end of her sentence came in broken gasps as she tripped over the mat and disappeared into the dining-room.

A moment later three flying figures dashed up breathlessly, with Faith panting on more slowly in the rear. "What has happened?" she gasped. "What is it all about?"

"I don't know," cried Audrey, "but it can't be anything bad." And they hurried after the others into their mother's room.

Mrs. Carlyle was sitting up on her couch looking happy and excited. Mr. Carlyle looked pleased too, but a little grave.

"Irene, dear, you tell them, will you?" said Mrs. Carlyle, eagerly. And Irene told, and what she told seemed to them all too wonderful to be true. Mrs. Vivian had taken a furnished house at Ilfracombe for two months, a house much larger than she needed for her own brood, and she begged Mrs. Carlyle to let her have her brood too for three or four weeks, "to fill the house up comfortably."

It was so wonderful, so unlooked-for, such an undreamed-of event in their lives, that for a second an awed silence filled the room. Then came a long-drawn "O-o-oh-h-h!" of sheer amaze and delight; and the spell was broken.

"Is it really, truly true!" gasped Debby, "or is it only a 'let's pretend'?"

"It is a really—truly true, Debby darling," cried Irene, seizing her in her arms and lifting her high enough to kiss her.

"Wants all of us?" gasped Audrey, incredulously. "What, all five!"

"' All—if you can spare them,'" read Mr. Carlyle, turning to the precious letter once more.

"But you can't spare them," said Faith, suddenly sitting down on a chair at her mother's side. Then, with a little gulp, and a little laugh, "You can't spare me, mummy, you know you can't. We will send off Audrey to be nursemaid to the babies, and—and you and I will have a nice quiet time at home alone!" Her lip quivered just for a moment, but her big brown eyes, full of a strained look of excitement, glanced from one to the other with half-laughing defiance, as though daring them to say her nay.

Audrey's spirits dropped from fever-heat to several degrees below zero. For one moment the prospect had been so beautiful, so ideal. A change, a holiday, a journey, the sea, servants, comforts—no more dishwashing or cooking. Oh, it was unbearably enticing. But almost with the same she realised that none of these were for her. Faith was to go, if no one else went. A glance at Faith's face made that quite plain. Yes, Faith must go; and she, Audrey, must stay at home. And so she told her when, after all the rest of the household was asleep, she crept down in her dressing-gown to Faith's room. Fearing to knock, she had entered the room with no more warning than a gentle rattle of the handle. But her warning was lost on Faith who, hot night though it was, was lying with her head buried under the bed-clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs.

"Faith! What is the matter? tell me. Oh, what is it? do tell me!"

At the touch of Audrey's hand, Faith had thrust her head up suddenly.

"Oh, I was afraid it was father! I mean, I was afraid he had heard me."

"What is the matter?" asked Audrey, her voice full of anxiety. "Oh, Faith, do tell me. Perhaps I can help."

"It—it isn't about not going to Ilfracombe," declared Faith stoutly. "Audrey, I don't want to go, I would rather not. You must go. I really want to stay at home."

"Why?"

"Because I do."

"That is no reason. You need a change and a holiday more than any of us, and you know you would love it. You must go."

"I can't."

"But why?"

"I am too tired. I don't want the fag of it all."

"But you will be less tired if you do go. The change will do you heaps of good, and it will not be a fag. I will pack for you."

Finding herself thus cornered, Faith's usually sweet temper gave way. "I haven't anything to pack," she snapped impatiently, "nor anything to pack in. I can't go. I can't possibly go. I haven't any clothes. Don't worry me so, Audrey."

Audrey showed no resentment. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. "Oh, I see. Well, we won't bother about that now. But, Faith, I do want you to go. I came down on purpose to ask you to. I want you to go as—as a favour to me. I will tell you why. I want to stay at home, I—I mean I can't go away just now, for I want to finish some writing very, very particularly," and she breathed in Faith's ear the precious secret about her 'play.'

Her ruse answered perfectly.

"You have written a play!" Faith sat erect in her bed, all her tiredness, all her depression gone. "A real play! Oh, Audrey, do you mean it? How clever you are! Of course I'll go and take the children, to leave you here in peace to finish it. I don't care how shabby my clothes are!"

Audrey winced. She would have liked—or, rather, it would have been pleasant—if Faith—and all—could just have realised her self-sacrifice— how much it cost her to stand aside, and give up so great a pleasure.

"Oh, I could——" she began, but, to her lasting joy, recovered herself in a moment, and never finished her sentence.

"Audrey, will you let me read it, some day?" Faith's eyes were full of appeal.

Audrey coloured. "Some day, perhaps," she said shyly. "Now I must go to bed."

"Thank you," said Faith simply. "Oh, Audrey, I am so happy!" She turned her pale face to the window, her eyes to the stars in the blue-black sky. "I am so happy that I feel I must get out and say my prayers again. A few minutes ago everything seemed black and dreary, but now——"

"I will say mine too," said Audrey gently, "before I go." And the two sisters knelt down side by side in the darkness, and said their prayers again together, 'because they were so happy,' with the happiness which comes of giving up something for one another.

The next morning Audrey got up early, and, going to the box-room, dragged out from their coverings her pretty green box and portmanteau. Then she went back to her room, and from her cupboards and drawers she collected a pair of house-shoes and a pair of boots, gloves, stockings, a soft grey cashmere dress that she had a little grown out of, and a Leghorn hat, which, she knew, had long filled Faith's heart with envy. All these she popped into the trunk.

"There is something towards going away," she said, as she dragged the boxes into Faith's bedroom; "the dress is as good as new, but I have grown so, and—and I will lend you my writing-case, and a nice hairbrush." And before Faith had recovered herself sufficiently to speak, Audrey had darted away again and locked herself in her own room.

The sacrifice had cost her more than anyone would ever know. The thought of the lost holiday, and such a holiday, was hard to bear, and a great longing for the sea was tugging at her heart-strings until the pain of it was almost unendurable.



CHAPTER XIV.

Audrey finished her clean copy of her play and posted it on the very day the family departed for Ilfracombe. But she did not tell Faith so. Faith must still believe that Audrey wanted nothing so much as a peaceful time at home for her work.

"And now I shall have to wait three whole weeks before I hear anything," she thought dolefully, as she hurried home from the post office and into the house by way of the back door, before any of the others were down.

She was rather surprised and disappointed that she felt none of the thrills and delight she had expected to feel when she at last sent off her first piece of work to try its fortune. Indeed, she felt nothing but a painful consciousness of its faults, which was very depressing.

And still more depressing was it to feel that she would not have Irene there to talk things over with, and get encouragement from. Those three long weeks of waiting she would have to live through alone, without anyone to confide her anxieties to, or to give her fresh hope.

Under the circumstances it was not easy, all things considered, to keep up a smiling face, and live up to the joyful excitement of the five travellers. And as she left the station with her father, after the train with its fluttering array of hands and handkerchiefs had glided away out of sight round the sunny curve, she had hard work to keep the tears out of her eyes, and the bitterness out of her heart.

Mr. Carlyle had to go and pay some calls in the village, so Audrey walked home alone; and very, very much alone she felt, after the lively companionship of the last month. The garden, when she reached it, wore a new air of desolation, and when she caught sight of one of Debby's dolls lying forgotten on the grass, she picked it up and hugged it sympathetically, out of pity for its loneliness. The silence in the house and out was just as oppressive. Audrey, still holding Debby's old doll, hurried through the silent hall and up the stairs to her room, and dropping on the seat by the window, she leaned her head over the ledge. Now, at last, she might give way to her feelings and sob out some of the pent-up misery in her heart.

"But—mother—she will be expecting me." The thought came to her more swiftly than the tears forced their way through her lids. It was nearly lunch time too, and there was no one but herself to get it.

"Oh, dear," sighed Audrey, "there is not even time to be miserable!" But that thought made her laugh, and she ran downstairs to Mary.

Mary had evidently shed a few tears, but she was already cheering herself up with plans for the homecoming.

"At first it seemed that melancholy and quiet, Miss Audrey, I felt I'd never be able to bear it, speshully when I remembered that Miss Irene wouldn't be coming back any more. It's like losing one of ourselves, isn't it, miss? And when I think of that dear baby gone so far,"—the tears welled up in Mary's eyes—"and there'll be no rompseying with her to-night before she goes to bed—well, I can't 'elp it. I may be silly, but I can't 'elp it, though there, she's happy enough, I daresay, with her little bucket and spade and all, and she won't miss us 'alf as much as we'll miss 'er!"

"Yes, baby will love it, Mary, they all will. We have got to cheer ourselves up by thinking of how happy they all are. And they will come back looking so well and strong. We shall get more accustomed to the quietness in a day or two, and the time will soon pass."

"Oh my, yes, miss! The time won't 'ang when once I begin to get my 'and in. It won't be long enough for all I'm going to do by time they come back. I am going to have their rooms as nice as nice can be; and I'm going to paint Master Tom's barrow, and I'm going to make a rabbit 'utch for Miss Debby and mend her dolls' pram——"

"But Mary, what about your holiday. You must have that while the house is so empty. I must speak to mother about it."

"Oh, I don't want any holiday, Miss Audrey." Mary's voice was quite decisive. "I mean, I don't want to go away. I haven't got any money to waste, and holidays do cost more'n they are worth. Leastways, mine do, for I'm so home-sick all the time, I'm only longing for them to be over. It seems waste, doesn't it, miss?"

"It does," agreed Audrey gravely, "but I suppose you have the joy of coming back, and you appreciate home all the more for having been away."

"Well, miss, it seems rather a lot to pay, for only just that. And a lot to bear too, when you are 'appy enough already. What I do want to go to is our own treat, when it comes, and I'd like to go to the sea for a day."

"Well, I am sure you can, Mary. I will speak to mother and father about it."

Audrey was busily collecting the things for her mother's lunch-tray. She had to make her an omelette, and she felt nervous about it, for hitherto Irene had helped her, and Mary was not capable of doing so.

As soon as it was ready she hurried upstairs with the tray. She had not seen her mother yet since they had all departed, and she had suddenly begun to wonder how she was bearing it.

"Of course I ought to have run in at once to see her," she thought remorsefully, "but I did feel miserable."

Mrs. Carlyle was lying propped up on her cushions with Debby's kittens beside her. "Well, darling," she said, looking up with a glad smile of welcome, "how did they all go off, I am longing to know. I have been picturing their enjoyment of everything they see and do on the journey, and their joy when they first catch sight of the sea."

"Oh dear," sighed Audrey, "everyone is thinking of their happiness. I can only think how miserable it is without them; and I should have thought you would have felt it even more than I do, mother."

"Perhaps it is that I have had more experience, dear, I seem to live again my own first visit to the sea; and time does not seem so long to one when one is older either, and it passes only too soon. I feel too full of gratitude to feel miserable, I had been thinking for such a long time about a change of air for them, and worrying myself because it seemed absolutely out of the question. Then quite suddenly the way was opened and all was made possible without my help or interference. One could sing thanksgiving all day long one has so many blessings to be thankful for."

"I shouldn't have thought you felt that, mother, shut up here week after week as you are; with nothing to look out at but the garden and the road." Audrey strolled over to the window, "and such a garden too!" she added sarcastically.

Mrs. Carlyle glanced out at it and sighed. "I often wish,"—she said, but did not finish her sentence.

"What do you often wish, mother?"

"I often long for the time when I shall be able to go out there again and help to keep it nice. If I ever am permitted to," she added in a lower tone.

"Well, at any rate I can," cried Audrey, with an effort to recover her spirits. Here was something more waiting for her to do. It was hard that her mother, having a garden to look on, should have only this neglected place with but one spot of brightness in it—the bed that Faith had made and Debby and Tom had sown with seeds.

Job Toms' herbaceous border was but a melancholy spectacle as yet. He had sown parsley and put in roots of mint and sage; and then, in Job's own way, had left the things to look after themselves, to grow or not to grow as they could or would.

Here was a task to set herself. She would get that bed, and Faith's too, as pretty as she could. Faith would be so delighted when she came home and saw it, and they would be able to vie with each other in keeping them nice, for mother's sake. If Jobey objected, well, he must go on objecting, and they would try and make him understand, without hurting his feelings, that a herbaceous border and a herb bed were not one and the same things.

Audrey's spirits went up with a bound.

"Are you awfully tired with what is called 'Gay'? Weary, discouraged, and sick, I'll tell you the loveliest game in the world— Do something for somebody quick! Do something for somebody quick!"