She sang blithely and felt in her heart that there was nothing like it for lifting a load off one's spirits.

"Mother dear," she said, when her mother had eaten her omelette, and laid aside her knife and fork, "I have been talking to Mary about her holiday. I thought she ought to have it while the house is so empty, but she does not want to go. She only wants one day for the Sunday School treat and one to spend by the sea."

"Yes, dear, of course she can. She must, she so thoroughly deserves it. And Audrey, I have another plan that I want to talk to you about. Don't you think it would be nice to ask granny to come and stay with us while the house is quiet?"

"Granny!" For a moment Audrey's heart leaped with pleasure, then it sank. Even with all the improvements they had wrought in the house, and the meals, and the way they were served, everything seemed very different from what granny was accustomed to at home. What would she do without her comforts! Audrey's mental eye ran over the carpets, the bed and table linen; even the best was as shabby as that which granny, at home, condemned and put aside.

"Are you ashamed for her to see our poverty?" asked Mrs. Carlyle in her patient, gentle voice, and Audrey coloured at finding her thoughts thus read.

"Darling, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Granny knows what our means are, and she must realise what heavy expenses we have to meet, so she should not expect us to be anything but shabby. She would understand that with five children things need replacing more often, and that there is less to replace them with."

"Oh, I know, mother, I know. But granny had only one little boy, and a very well behaved one, and I think she couldn't realise how five of us knock the things about."

"But don't you think she would be so glad to see her one little boy, that she would overlook that?"

Audrey still looked doubtful.

"Think of it in this way, dear. Suppose we missed this opportunity, and suppose dear granny died before we invited her here. Do you think we should ever cease to feel remorseful? And don't you think she would rather be asked to come, and made to feel that we wanted her, than remain unasked because our home is shabby? Try by all means in one's power to have things as neat and nice and comfortable as possible, but don't let us put outward show before kind feeling."

Audrey listened eagerly. She had learnt one great lesson—not to trust entirely to her own opinion and she was very, very anxious to learn what was right, and to do it.

Mrs. Carlyle looked at her smiling. "Don't you think it is often a help to ask oneself, 'what would I like others to do to me? What would I myself prefer?'" But Audrey coloured painfully, as the thought of her own return home came back to her. How entirely she had lost sight of the love and the welcome in her care about external appearances. She was silent so long that her mother looked at her anxiously more than once.

"I think you are very tired, aren't you, dear?"

"Oh no, mother."

"Perhaps you need a holiday. Would you like to go back with granny to Farbridge for a week or two?"

"Oh no, mother, no I don't want any holiday. I don't want anything to do but stay here. Oh, mother." Her secret hovered on the tip of her tongue, her longing to confide in her mother almost overcame all her other feelings, but she checked herself. "Oh mother," she added lamely, "I want to do so much but—but——"

A voice came calling up the stairs, "Audrey, Audrey, are you coming to give me my dinner, or am I to dine alone?" Mr. Carlyle put his head in round the door. "Don't you think the remnant of the crew should cling together?" Then kissing his wife and lifting away her tray, he drew Audrey's hand through his arm and made for the door.

"Audrey will tell you of the plans we have been hatching," Mrs. Carlyle called after them. "Come up here when you have finished your dinner and tell me what you think about them."

"Mother thought that now would be a good time to ask granny here to stay," said Audrey.

"Did she!" Mr. Carlyle looked up with almost boyish pleasure on his face. Audrey was surprised. She had not dreamed that he would care so much.

"That really looks as though your mother felt a little stronger. Don't you think so?" he added, and looked at her with such eager questioning eyes, she had not the heart to say that mother never thought of herself when she was planning happiness for others. She really was better though, and stronger. She herself said so, and the doctor said so. She could do several little things now that she could not have done a few months ago.

"I am sorry granny will not see the children," her father was saying when her thoughts came back to him again. "She has never seen Joan yet. But your mother and she will have a more quiet time for talks together than they have ever had, and I am glad of that. We must try and make her as comfortable as we can, Audrey."

"Yes, daddy, we will," she said, but not very hopefully.

The meal ended, she got up from the table and strolled over to the window. As her eyes fell on the herb bed once more she remembered all her plans for making it a pleasant sight for her mother to look out on. She thought of her other plans too. Of all the writing she had meant to do while the work in the house was slacker, and here were all her plans upset, and a fresh load laid upon her shoulders.

Across her thoughts came Irene's voice, and a fragment of their merry talks. "I know I shall never paint a big picture, nor write any great books, nor be a pioneer of any kind; but I know I can help to make a few people happier, and it is grand to feel that there is something one can do. Something that is of use. I always feel as though people were my little children, and I've got to mother them."

With her eyes fixed on the herb bed, Audrey first felt the responsibility of controlling her own words and temper. "I know I can help to make a few people happier." It rested with her to make or mar the pleasure of her grandmother's visit. By letting her feelings have their own way she could spoil everyone's pleasure. By putting her own feelings aside, and thinking only of others, she could, to a large extent, make their pleasure.

"How odd things are," she sighed aloud. "No one is of very great importance, yet everyone matters to someone——"

"To lots of someones as a rule," said her father, rising and joining her at the window. "And that is one of the most serious and most blessed facts of life. I think that almost the saddest thing human beings can feel is that no one is the better or the happier for their existence."

"But can we help it, father? If I had no relations, nor anyone belonging to me——"

"You would still have all the world to 'mother,' Audrey. There is always someone, close at hand too, needing help and sympathy. Always bear that in mind, my child wherever you may be. Now I am going up to talk to your mother. I think we had better ask granny to come next week."

"Next week!" thought Audrey. "At any rate then I shall have no time to worry about my play or anything else before granny comes, whatever I may do after."

"Oh Mary," she sighed as she took a turn at the ironing while she told her the news, and Mary washed the dinner things, "I am dreadfully nervous. I wish we had a cook and a parlourmaid, and I wish we were able to buy all the best things that can be got. Granny does so like to have nice food and nice everything. She has always been accustomed to it."

But Mary, never having seen her master's mother, much less lived with her, was not so filled with fears as was Audrey herself.

"Well, miss, we'll do our best—and we can't do more. And after all, people don't come to stay with you for what you can give them, but because they want to see you."

And with that thought Audrey tried to allay her nervous fears, and face the coming visit with only happy anticipations.

Old Mrs. Carlyle tried to face the coming visit with happy anticipations only; but, with a lively recollection of her last visit to her son's home still impressed on her mind, she could not help it if her feelings this time were a little mixed. Her longing though to see her son and his wife, and her favourite grand-daughter, overcame every other; and the warmly affectionate terms in which they invited her, sent a glow to her lonely old heart.

"There is something better than comfort," she thought to herself, "and some things that means cannot buy. I wish Audrey had her dear father's affectionate nature," she added wistfully, for she had never forgotten the lack of feeling Audrey had shown when the summons came which was to break up their happy life together.

Granny Carlyle came, and though her visit was but a short one, she learnt many things while it lasted. One was that her son's home was more comfortable but more shabby than she had thought. Another was that poverty and the need to work had developed in Audrey a stronger character and a sweeter nature than comfort and plenty could ever have done. The grandmother noticed the change in her almost as soon as she alighted at Moor End station.

Audrey had not only grown in inches, but, though older-looking, she was yet younger. She was less self-conscious, but more self-reliant; less concerned for herself, and more for others. When they reached the Vicarage, and the luggage had been deposited in the hall, Audrey picked out the special cap-basket and ran up at once with it to her granny's room.

"I knew you would want this, the first thing," she said cheerfully, "and Mary has put hot water ready for you; the can is under the bath towel. And tea will be ready when you are, granny. It will be in mother's room, we thought you would like it there."

And as Mrs. Carlyle came out of her bedroom to go to her daughter-in-law's room she met Audrey flying up the stairs with a rack of dry toast on a tray. "I remembered that you used to eat toast always for tea, granny, so I thought you might still. Oh, granny, it is so nice to see you in your pretty caps again, it seems so—so natural."

It also seemed to her, though, that granny had grown to look much older in the last three months, and thinner, or was it only that she had been away from her, and amongst younger people.

With a sudden sense of sadness, Audrey thrust her arm affectionately through her grandmother's arm. "Mother is longing so to see you," she said, with a sort of longing on her to make her granny feel that they all loved her. Her mother's words came back to her hauntingly, "Don't you think granny would rather be asked to come to us, and be made to feel that we want her, than remain unasked, because our home is shabby?"

Then Mr. Carlyle appeared, and taking granny by the other arm, they all entered the invalid's room together.

When she had started for her visit Mrs. Carlyle had wondered how she would get through a whole week without the comforts and the peace she was accustomed to. At the end of ten days she sighed that she could not stay longer. "If I hadn't invited a friend to pay me a visit," she said, "I should be very tempted to stay the fortnight. I have enjoyed myself so much, dear Kitty, and feel better for the change." And both Audrey and her mother felt very very happy, for they were both of them aware that granny had not enjoyed her former visit. She had not hesitated to say so.

During the ten days granny, too, had done her share in making happiness. "Gracious me, child," she cried, when she saw the carpetless floor in the drawing-room, "I did not know that it was as bad as this. I have so much furniture at home I can scarcely move for it, and two carpets sewn up with camphor, to keep the moths and mice away, I will send them both as soon as I get back, and—a few other things that may be useful."

She hesitated for a moment, then, with her old severe manner, "I don't want to be prying, Audrey, as you know, but how are you off for china—odd plates for the kitchen, and cups and saucers and things."

"Not very well, granny. We aren't well off in any kind of china. If the children had been at home we should not have had enough of anything to go round," she added, with a rueful little laugh. And though granny looked shocked for a moment, and felt so, she was obliged to laugh too.

"Oh!" she said. "Well, I will pop in some useful odds and ends, so that when I come again on purpose to see the children, we shall have a plate each, and not have to share a cup."

But, though they little thought it then, poor Granny Carlyle was never to come again. And none of those she loved best could feel thankful enough that they had had that pleasant time which had brought them all closer together than they had ever been before, and had left not only one happy lifelong memory, but many.



CHAPTER XV.

"I think I would like to go for a walk, daddy, if you are going home, and will see that mother is all right."

"Yes, I will take care of mother. Are you very tired, dear? I am afraid you must be, you have worked very hard looking after us all so well."

Audrey smiled up at her father, but it was rather a wistful smile. "No, I am not exactly tired, but I feel as if I wanted a walk."

"I expect you do, you have been shut up in the house so much. Well, I will hurry home now; and you will be back in time for tea?"

Audrey nodded, and, with a sigh of contentment, turned up the winding road which would presently lead her out on the moor.

Granny Carlyle's visit was over, and it was as she and her father were turning away from the station after seeing her off, that there had come to her suddenly a great desire to be alone, to be out on the great, wide, open, silent moor, where she could think and think without fear of interruption.

At home there was so little time for thought, and she had so many things to think about. Only yesterday granny had said: "Well, Audrey, and are you coming back to me when the year is up?" And Audrey, shocked at the thrill of dismay the mere suggestion sent through her, had tried to tell her as gently and kindly as possible, that she could not be spared from home, at any rate, until Joan was some years older.

"Even when mother gets about again, she will not be fit for hard work," she explained hurriedly, "and, of course, there is a lot of hard work. Father says we can't possibly keep another servant, for there will soon be the governess to pay, as well as Mary and Job Toms."

"I know, child, I know," granny answered, almost sadly. "I scarcely expected to be able to have you." And Audrey, feeling a little uncomfortable lest she should have even suspected her changed feelings, had again been struck by her aged and fragile look, the weariness in her eyes, and in her voice, and had been troubled by it.

It had troubled her, too, ever since, but she did not know what she could do. Indeed, she knew that she could not do anything, and that was saddest of all.

Up on the moor she threw herself down on a bed of heather, and with only the bees, and the larks, and the little westerly breeze for company, tried to think the matter out. And soon the breeze blew some of her worries away, and the sun and the birds' songs between them so raised her spirits that she found courage to face things more hopefully and trustfully. "I can't alter things," she sighed, "I can only do the best I know, or what seems best."

Presently remembrance of her play came back to her. For the last week or two she had been so busy, and her mind so occupied with other things, she had really not had time to worry about it, and now: "There are only three days more to wait!" she cried. "Only three days more. I wonder how I shall first know? Will they write? or shall I see it in the papers? or—or what? And how shall I bear it—if—if, whichever way it is?"

But, in spite of herself, her mind wandered on, picturing what she would do with her money. Should she send away for one of those pretty, cool, cotton rest-gowns for her mother, that she longed so for. They were often advertised, it would be quite easy to get one. She would still have a good deal left for other things. Or should she give the money to her father for a new great coat? His old one was fearfully shabby. It would take the whole of her money, but it would be lovely when winter came, to know that he was not cold. Oh! but she did want to get some new curtains, or sheets, and—and Faith was dreadfully in need of a rain coat, and: "Oh, dear!" she cried, rousing out of her day-dream, "and, after all, I shall probably not even have a five-shilling consolation prize! How silly I am to let myself think of it. It is enough to prevent its coming."

She got on to her feet, and shook herself, to shake the dried grass and heather from her skirt and her long hair—to shake off her foolishness too. Well, five shillings would be useful. It would buy mother some fruit, and wool for socks for father. "I wish though I could forget all about it. I wish something would happen to drive it out of my head again." And already something was happening—was on its way to her.

A letter had come for her while she was out, a letter from Irene.

"I can see that it is from Ilfracombe," said her mother as she handed it to her. "Open it quickly, dear, I have been longing for you to come home and tell me what it says about them all."

But Audrey's eyes were already devouring the pages. "Oh!" she gasped, "oh, how lovely! How perfectly lovely!"

If there is one thing more aggravating than another, it is to hear someone exclaiming over a letter, without giving a clue as to the cause of the excitement.

"Audrey! Audrey, darling, don't tease me any more."

Audrey looked up, ashamed of her selfishness. Her mother's cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Oh, mummy, I am so sorry," she cried, repentantly.

"Never mind, dear. I could see that the news, whatever it was, was pleasant."

"Oh, mother, it is lovely, perfectly—perfectly glorious. What do you think? They are actually coming here to live—no, not in this house," laughing, "but in Moor End. Irene says that her grandfather has bought the Mill House for them, and they hope to have it done up and ready for them to move into before winter sets in. Won't it be lovely? Oh, mother, aren't you glad?"

Mrs. Carlyle was more than glad. She was thankful. Her mind was relieved of a care which had increased as the days sped on. Now her girls would have companionship, and with friends whose influence and example would be all for good. Tom, too, would have a companion. And, perhaps, who knows, they could share their lessons too. Mrs. Carlyle's thoughts flew on; but her thoughts were all for her children. She had not yet considered what it would mean to herself,—the companionship, the kind friends at hand in case of need.

"You are very, very glad about it, aren't you, dear?" she asked, her heart and her eyes full of sympathy with her child's gladness.

"Glad! Oh, mother. I was never so happy in my life. It seems now as though everything is just perfect!"

"And granny? Have you given up wanting to go back to her, dear?"

A shadow fell on Audrey's happiness. "Granny was speaking about it," she said hurriedly, "only yesterday, and I told her I could not come. I thought I was—I felt I ought to stay here, even after you are well again, for there is a lot to do, and—and, mother—you don't think I must go back, do you?"

Her voice was full of anxiety. She had little dreamed at one time that she would ever be overjoyed at being told she could not do so; but now. Her eyes sought her mother's face anxiously. She longed to hear her say reassuringly that there was not the slightest need, that she could not be spared.

But for a moment Mrs. Carlyle did not answer at all, and when she did she spoke slowly and hesitatingly. "I hardly know, dear, what to say. As she is at present, there is no actual need, and I am glad, for I don't know what we should do without you here. But, well, I feel I could not grudge her one—when I have so many, and she is so lonely. You could be such a comfort to her, Audrey."

Audrey's face grew white and hard. "Of course," she thought bitterly, "it was only for her to feel happy for life to seem jollier and more full of happy prospects than ever before, and she must be dragged away from it all."

If she had been asked what, above all else, she would have chosen, she would have asked for just this: that Irene should come to live close by; and she was really coming. Better still, they were all of them coming, and life, for one brief moment, had seemed full of sunshine. "So, of course, a black and heavy cloud must come up, and shut the sunshine out, and darken all her happiness," she told herself dramatically.

"Audrey, dear. Don't look so unhappy, so—so disappointed. We will not anticipate. No one knows what the future may bring. It is seldom exactly what we hope, or dread; and if we just go on trustfully day by day, taking all the happiness God sends us, and ready bravely to face the clouds. We know that He will make the sunshine show through. He wants His children to be happy, not miserable."

"I—don't know," said Audrey, doubtingly. "It seems that if ever I want a thing very much it is taken away, or I am not allowed——"

"Audrey, darling, do not say such things. Do not let yourself ever think it. Do you honestly believe that the great God above demeans Himself and His Majesty and Might to annoy one of His children? That He plans to torment you? My dear, dear child, don't get into that bitter, wicked way of talking. It is so wrong—so insulting to your Heavenly Father. It is so ruining to your own character, and your happiness. The mistake that we make, Audrey, is that we want to choose our own way, and follow it—not His. That we think we can see better than He what is for the best, and what our future should be.

"Now, let no imaginary cloud in the future overshadow the sunshine of to-day. Enjoy the happiness that is sent to you, and, if the call to duty elsewhere comes, obey it as all good soldiers of Christ should."

Audrey was on her knees by her mother's side, her face buried in her lap. "Oh, mother, mother!" she cried remorsefully, "I am not a good soldier—I am a coward. I never want to obey—unless—it pleases me to."

"You did not want to come here when the summons came, did you, dear?"

Audrey shook her head. "No, mummy," she admitted reluctantly. "When I came I counted the days until I could go back again."

"But you are happy here? You are glad now?"

"Oh, yes, yes," cried poor Audrey.

"You would not be happy, though, if you stayed on here, refusing to go to granny. You would be in the place you want to be, you would be near your friends, and be doing the things you want to do; but you would not be happy. You would enjoy nothing."

"Is one only happy if one does one's duty?" queried Audrey faintly.

"Yes, little soldier. That is why you have been so happy here since——"

"Since Irene showed me what my duty was," said Audrey softly. She rose to her feet, kissed her mother fondly, and for a moment stood by her side silent, and very still.

"I—I will try," she said at last, "I will try, but—but——" Her voice broke.

Mrs. Carlyle put her arm about her, and held her very close. "That will do, darling. That is all God asks of any of us—just to try and shoulder bravely the duties He lays on us."

It was just three days later that Audrey heard the news so longed for, yet so dreaded. By the early post that morning there came several letters, and one of them for her.

When she opened it, and unfolded the sheet of paper it held, a cheque dropped out and into her lap. A cheque for three guineas!

For a moment Audrey held it, staring at it incredulously. Then she had won a prize! The first prize, too! Her play had not been utter rubbish, but the best! The best!!

The blood rushed over her face and neck, dyeing both scarlet; her hands trembled, her heart beat suffocatingly. She turned to the letter, but for a moment she could see nothing. Then gradually her sight cleared, and she read: "The Editor of The Girl's World has much pleasure in informing Miss Audrey Carlyle that her play has been adjudged the best of all those sent in; and encloses a cheque for three guineas. The Editor would be glad to have a copy of Miss Carlyle's latest photograph, to print in our next number."

Audrey read no more. With her face glowing with happiness, her red mane flying behind her, she rushed up the stairs to her mother's room. At last she could tell her secret.

Sure of her mother's interest and sympathy she burst into the room with only the faintest apology of a tap at the door. Her father was there too, standing by the bed with a letter in his hand.

"Oh, mother! What do you think!" Audrey's voice broke off suddenly, for her mother's eyes when she looked at her were full of tears.

"Oh, what has happened? Father—mother—what has happened? Not—an accident?"

Her thoughts flew at once to her brothers and sisters. "Not——!" She could not finish the awful question. She turned so white and faint that her father stepped across the room, and taking her in his arms, guided her to a chair by the open window. "No, no, dear, not, thank God, as bad as that. A letter has come from Dr. Norman to say that yesterday granny fainted, and was unconscious a long time. She recovered, but—he wants me to come as soon as possible, he is afraid—her condition may be serious."

"I am never to be allowed any great happiness," said Audrey in her heart. "If something good comes my way, something bad comes with it." Even through her anxiety the thought would come, adding bitterness to her trouble. The letter and cheque she held slipped from her fingers to the floor. She would not even tell her news, she thought bitterly. Perhaps if she showed that she did not care, Fate would find no pleasure in being so cruel to her.

"Do you want me to go too?" she asked. She knew that her voice was hard and unsympathetic, but she felt, at that moment, as though she could not help it.

"No, not now, dear." The gentleness of her mother's voice brought a lump to Audrey's throat. "Your father will go first, and see how things are. They may need a trained nurse, or—well, we don't know; but, oh, Audrey, Audrey, the bitter part is that we haven't the money to take him there. We dare not draw any more from the Bank until some has been paid in, and that cannot be for a few days yet. What can we do? There is no one we can appeal to, no one we can confide in. If Mr. Vivian were only here——"

But Audrey, instead of answering, was groping on the floor. Tears were in her eyes, shame and remorse again filled her heart. After all, God was giving her a greater opportunity, a more perfect way, of using her money, than any she had dreamed of.

"Father," she said shyly, "I have just had this," holding out the two slips of paper. "I came up to tell you and mother, but—but——" The varying emotions of the morning, the joyful surprise, the excitement, the shock which had turned her faint, the drop from the height of her happiness to the depths of bitterness and sorrow, proved too much for Audrey, and, dropping on her knees beside her mother's bed, she burst into tears.

She felt her mother's gentle hand on her head, she felt her father raise her in his arms. She heard her father, as he kissed her forehead, murmur, "My blessed child, my God-send." She heard her mother say, with a catch in her voice, "My Audrey, what should we do without you!"

But all Audrey could do was to sob brokenly. "No, no, no, I don't deserve it, don't, please don't. You don't know——"

"I do know," whispered her father kindly, as he held her. "You felt aggrieved, hurt; you came up in the full flush of your happiness, and found us filled with selfish sorrow, wrapped in our own cares. You thought all your pleasure in your success was spoilt. I thought only of my trouble. Really, God was giving us both our opportunity. Doubling your happiness, and teaching me a lesson in Faith."

"And me," said Mrs. Carlyle softly, "that under us are always His supporting arms."

That afternoon Mr. Carlyle left for Farbridge, but Audrey's summons did not come for a while yet.

Granny Carlyle rallied considerably, and they all began to hope that she might be spared to them yet. But it was only a temporary rally; and Faith and the little ones had been home but a few days when a telegram came from Farbridge, asking that Audrey might come at once, and, instead of starting for Ilfracombe for a week or two's stay before the Vivians left there too, Audrey went on a very, very different visit, one that none knew the end of, for old Mrs. Carlyle was in that state that she might live for years, or for only a few weeks or days.

Never, in all her life after, did Audrey forget that journey on that hot August day. The sun poured in at the window on her, the smuts came in in showers, the compartment felt like an oven, and the hot air was heavy with the mingled odours of blistering paint, coal smoke, and tar. At every station at which they stopped the engine panted like an exhausted thing. The sight of beds of scarlet geraniums glowing in the sun ever after brought back to Audrey the sights, sounds, and sensations of that hot summer afternoon.

But at last the journey was over, and Audrey, feeling almost as though she was walking in a dream, crossed the well-remembered park—where the only change was that the grass was now burnt brown, and summer flowers took the place of the tulips and daffodils she had left behind her—and entered once more the orderly, roomy house which was so little changed that she might have gone out from it only the day before, except that now the moving spirit was gone, and the silence was not restful, as of old, but oppressive.

Phipps met her, with tears in her eyes. "Perhaps you would like to go to your room first, Miss Audrey. Are you very hot and tired, miss?"

"I think I am," said Audrey wearily, "but that is nothing. How is granny now, Phipps?"

But Phipps only shook her head, and the tears brimmed over. "I can't say she is any better, Miss Audrey, and—and I won't say she is worse, I can't bring myself to," and Phipps began to sob aloud.

"Poor Phipps!" said Audrey in a choky voice. "Is she as bad as that!" She knew what it all meant for Phipps. If Granny Carlyle died, her home of forty years was gone from her. For the first time in her life Audrey realised what we all come to realise as we grow older—that the sorrowfulness of death is not with those who go, but with those who are left behind.

"I shall lose everything," sobbed Phipps, "everything I care for. My dear mistress, my home—everything, and I shall never be happy in another."

"Oh, poor Phipps!" cried Audrey, genuinely troubled. What could one do or say to comfort such sorrow! But her sympathy comforted Phipps a little, and she cheered up somewhat.

"If you will come down when you are ready, miss, I will have tea waiting for you," she said as she left the room, "and after tea the mistress would like to see you."

But, tired and exhausted though she was, Audrey could only make a pretence of taking the meal. To be sitting alone in that big room, which she had hitherto never known without her granny, and feeling that in all probability she would never, never see her there again, was sufficient in itself to destroy any appetite she had. Her thoughts, too, were full of the coming interview. What could she say and do? Would granny be much changed? These and a dozen other questions hammered at her brain as she poured herself out a cup of tea. How she had once longed to be allowed to pour tea from that silver tea-pot, and pick up the sugar with those dainty little tongs, which granny would never allow her to touch. What a proud day it would be, so she used to think, when she might! But now—now that the day had come, she found no pride or pleasure in it, only a sort of shrinking. It seemed to her to be taking advantage of granny's helplessness—that she had no right. She was haunted by the sight of granny's fragile, delicate hand clasping that handle, and delicately turning over the lumps of sugar to find one of a suitable size.

"Would she be much changed?" Her thoughts flew again to the coming interview, which she so dreaded.

Yet, after all, though sad, it was very quiet and simple. Granny lay flat in her bed, looking much as usual, save that the face surrounded by the night-cap frill was thinner, and gentler, perhaps, and more kind.

"Come round to the other side, dear," she said softly, as Audrey approached her, and only then did Audrey realise that granny's right arm and side were helpless.

She was very white as she stooped down to kiss her grandmother, and her lips trembled.

"It is all right, dear; don't you grieve about me," granny whispered. She was so weak she could not speak very well. "I am quite ready— anxious—to go. I am very glad you came to me, Audrey; you have made me very happy."

Audrey knelt down by the bed, holding her granny's hand in both hers. "I—oh, granny, I wish I had never left you!" She pressed the fragile hand against her cheek caressingly. "I—I didn't want to go. I shall have home and the others always, and you only for a little while." Her sobs choked her.

"Dear, you do not know—no one knows—how long you may have each other, and it was your duty to go. Your mother was ill, and needed you; I was well, and had many to take care of me. I did not want to let you go, but I was glad afterwards, when I saw you again, I knew it had been best for you. Keep to the path you have set your feet on so bravely, dear."

Granny's voice died away. She was too tired to talk any more. "To-morrow," she gasped; "send nurse—now."

So Audrey, with another lingering kiss, crept softly away, to spend the long lonely evening among the shadows in the great drawing-room, where everything seemed to speak to her of her granny. Here was her work-table, with her work neatly folded, as she had left it. Here was her book with a folded piece of paper in it for a marker. She could not bear it any longer. In her own room the pain might be less cruel.

Audrey sobbed herself to sleep that night, but before that she had made one more resolution, with her prayers. In all the days to come, God helping her, she would 'Leave no tender word unsaid.' She would strive hard that these bitter memories, this reproach, should never again be hers.

"Out of sight and out of reach they go. These dear familiar friends who loved us so, And sitting in the shadows they have left, Alone with loneliness, and sore bereft, We think, with vain regret, of some kind word That once we might have said, and they have heard."

Audrey did not know those lines then, but they expressed the thoughts which haunted her in those days, even in her dreams.

Early the next morning, after her breakfast, Phipps came to ask her to go to her granny's room as soon as convenient.

"I will go now. How is she, Phipps? Do you think she is any better, just a shade better?"

But Phipps only shook her head, and hurried out of the room with her head bowed. Poor Audrey! Phipps had dashed all the hopes which had risen afresh with the morning, and sent her to the sick-room unnerved and full of fears.

But face to face with her granny, so calm and placid and content, fears seemed wicked, out of place.

"Audrey, dear, before I have my sleep I want to say something to you in case, later, I may not be able to. When I am gone there are certain things which I wish you children to have. The lawyer knows—it is all written down—but I wanted to tell you myself. I want to ask you—and to ask the others through you—when you wear them to wear them not as ornaments only, but as reminders; will you, dear Audrey? As reminders to—to give your sympathy and love, while it can help, not only at the hour of parting. That is where I have failed. I see it now, and ask God's pardon." For a moment there was silence in the quiet room; a tear fell from the dying eyes. Audrey's were falling fast.

Presently the weak voice began again. "To you, Audrey, I have given my pearl brooch, and the ring your grandfather gave me as my engagement-ring. You will value it, will you not, dear? I wish you not to wear the ring until you are eighteen. I was just eighteen when he gave it to me. To Faith I am giving my ruby cross and brooch—Faith with her warm heart glowing with kindness towards the world, always reminds me of rubies. Tom is to have his grandfather's watch and chain, and Debby is to have mine. To Baby I have given my string of pearls." Her voice had grown more and more feeble, and now for a moment died away. But very soon she spoke again. It was as though she felt she had not much time, and could not waste a moment of it. "To you, dear, I leave my work-table, too; you loved it so when you were very little. Do you remember?"

Audrey smiled as the memory came back to her of the joy with which she had turned it out, and dusted and rearranged it daily. But her smile changed to tears. "Granny, granny, you must get well, and use it again yourself. There is your work in it now, waiting to be finished."

A little flicker of pain passed over granny's face. "I shall never finish it now," she whispered. "Whenever the end comes, one leaves many things undone. Some do not matter so very much. It is the thought of the things that do matter—neglected—those we might have helped, that stab one to the heart."

With a deep sigh she turned her face on her pillow. Audrey, kneeling beside her, holding her hand, presently laid it gently down, thinking that she had gone to sleep, and, stepping softly to a chair by the window, sat down to wait for her to wake and speak again.

Over in the park the children were playing gaily; the elder folk were already seated on the seats with books or newspaper, or sewing. How familiar it all was, how dear! Minute after minute passed, while Audrey, with her eyes fixed on the distant hills, turned over and over in her mind those last words her grandmother had spoken. How they rang in her ears, as warning bells! By and by the nurse came in.

"Granny is having such a lovely sleep," said Audrey happily. But the nurse, already at the bedside, did not return her smile. Her eyes were on the face on the pillow, her hand on the frail hand lying where Audrey had laid it down.

"She is," she said at last, very softly—"She was. She has had such a beautiful wakening, dear. She has passed through the Valley of Shadows, and is safe on the other side."



CHAPTER XVI.

A year had passed since Granny Carlyle went to her rest and Audrey returned to the Vicarage to take up her duties there again.

Another summer has come and gone, for it is September now, but a September so warm and sunny and beautiful that, if it were not for the changing tints on the trees, one might well imagine it was still June.

In the Vicarage garden the 'herb bed' had developed into a handsome herbaceous border, varied by patches here and there of feathery parsley, a bush of sage, a clump of lemon-thyme, and mint. Job Toms had retired again to his kitchen-garden, for "he didn't hold with messing up flowers and herbs together, and nothing wasn't going to make him believe but what planting poppies next to parsley was bad for the parsley. Poppies was p'ison, so he'd been always led to believe, and he didn't believe in p'isonous things being planted 'mongst what folks was asked to eat."

So Audrey and Faith and the children had taken the beds in their charge, and in aiming at showing Job what a beautiful, if not useful, thing a herbaceous border could be, they had laboured hard, and were now reaping their reward.

Occasionally, as a great favour, the old man could be coaxed into cutting the grass—as to-day, for instance, which was a great day in the family history, for it was Mrs. Carlyle's birthday; and not only that, but she was to go to the Mill House to tea. Her first real 'outing' for two long years at least.

To her husband and children, and even to Mary and Job, to have 'mother' about amongst them again was a cause for such rejoicing that they hardly knew how to express it.

Early in the morning Debby and Tom were up and knocking at Miss Babbs's shop door before Miss Babbs was fully dressed or had raked the ashes out of her kitchen stove.

"Why, Master Tom," she cried, somewhat ruffled by the importunate hammering on her new paint. "Shops ain't supposed to be open till the shutters is down."

"I will take them down for you," offered Tom, blandly.

"I don't want them took down yet, thank you, sir. Why I haven't had time even to light my kitchen fire yet——"

"I'll light your kitchen fire, Babbs dear," said Debby, quite undisturbed by Miss Babbs's wrath. "I'll have it burning like anything by the time you've got your hair on."

Miss Babbs backed away into the dark shop. "I don't want any help, thank you, Miss Deborah," she said, stiffly. "If you'll come again in an hour's time, when the shop is open, I'll be ready to serve you."

"Babby dear, don't be cross," pleaded Deborah. "It's mother's birthday, and we want some flags to decorate the garden, 'cause she's coming out to-day for the first time."

Debby's tone was pathetic in the extreme. Her expression and her words went straight to Miss Babbs's heart, and brought the tears to her eyes. "Oh, my dear children, you don't say so! Oh, I am glad! Whoever'd have thought it. Come right in—not that I believe I've a flag left, unless 'tis Coronation ones. Come in and shut the door, Master Tom. We don't want all Moor End dropping in, before I'm dressed for the day, and my place tidy. No, never mind the shutters, Master Tom, we'll leave them up for a bit. I'll carry the box into the parlour for you, and you can turn it out for yourselves, while I light my fire, or I shall be I don't know where all day."

Tom and Debby, expressing their thanks as they went, groped their way delightedly past barrels of potatoes, soap-boxes, and goods of many kinds. The sacks looked quite alarming in the dimness, the barrels as though they might have held all manner of mysterious dangers. The air was heavy with the mingled smell of onions, bacon, scented soap, leather, and groceries.

"Oh, I must keep a shop when I grow up," whispered Debby. "Miss Babbs, when you retire will you sell your business to me? I've got three pounds in the bank already, and I'll save every penny,"—but her plans came to an end in a hamper, into which she plunged head first.

"Babbs isn't going to retire," grunted Tom, as he dragged his sister out. "Don't talk rubbish, Deb."

Miss Babbs staggered out into the light parlour with a large wooden box, and dumped it down on the table before her customers. "There's bandana handkerchiefs on top," she panted, "but there may be a flag or so under."

"The quickest way will be to turn the box upside down, and begin at the bottom," suggested Tom, as soon as Miss Babbs had retired to her kitchen— and suited the action to the word.

"Here's one!" cried Debby eagerly, and unfolded a flag with 'God Save our King and Queen' on it, and portraits of their Majesties.

"And here's one of 'God Bless our Sunday School,'" cried Tom. "Oh, look, there are three of them. If we nail them upside down they will look all right. They'll be flags, anyhow."

"It's an insult to hang a flag upside down," corrected Debby, severely.

"All right, I don't mind. Here's a Union Jack, that's jolly, though they are rather a worry to hang. I never can remember which way they should go. Not that anyone in Moor End would know if they were right way up or not."

"Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," retorted Debby, "and it's time they were taught." She had lately been reading an article on the subject and her opinions were very strong with regard to the ignorance shown by so many. "One Coronation, one Union Jack," she counted, "three Sunday School—that's five altogether. We ought to have one more to make the money up to sixpence. I'll have a red and white handkerchief, it will come in afterwards for Jobey for Christmas."

When, by and by, Mrs. Carlyle passed downstairs to go out through the garden to the carriage Mr. Vivian had sent to drive her to the Mill House, she found the banisters festooned with rings of coloured paper, and the garden ablaze with paper roses and flags. From every tree fluttered a flag, more or less inappropriate, and on every bush and plant, poppy and rose, sage and phlox, laurel and sweet briar, blossomed roses of a size and colour to make a florist's heart rejoice—had they been real. Suspended across the gateway hung an old white sheet, with 'Many happy returns,' in red letters, sewn on crookedly.

Smiles and tears fought for mastery in her heart. "It is all meant for you, mummy," explained Debby, eagerly. "You must pretend what is on the Coronation flag is 'God save our Mother,' and on the Sunday School ones 'God bless our Mother.' Can you pretend like that, mummy? I can."

"Yes, darling, for it is no pretence. He has saved me, and blessed me," she said softly.

The carriage was to drive slowly through the village that the heroine of the day might see it all again, and note all the changes which had taken place during her long seclusion. Joan was to go with her to share the novelty of a drive. But the other four and their father formed a guard of honour, and marched beside them, or behind. Mary was to share in the outing too. As soon as she had tidied herself and put things straight, she was to hand the care of the house over to Job Toms, and go to the Mill House as early as she could, which was only a few minutes later than her mistress.

The slow drive turned into a veritable triumphal progress. Everyone rejoiced to see the Vicar's wife amongst them again, every heart in the village shared in the joy of the Vicar and his family. Miss Babbs was out at her shop door, waving her best lace handkerchief. The old sexton's wife ran into the road in order to present a bunch of the best flowers in her garden. All stood out at their doors with welcoming smiles and glad greetings.

By the time they reached the Mill House, Mrs. Carlyle was almost borne down with the weight of love and tenderness which had been poured out upon her—but, oh! so happy, so glad, so grateful.

At the Mill House, where all were out awaiting her. Mrs. Vivian soon carried her off to her own little room. "You are to rest here quite alone," she said firmly. "I shall not allow anyone to see you for half an hour—unless, perhaps, it is your husband or Audrey."

Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her with grateful eyes, and a brave smile on her pale, happy face. "You understand," she said gently. "I would like to be quite alone just for a little. Oh, I feel so—unworthy, and so—so rich beyond my deserts. I must ask for help to—to try to merit some of all I have."

Downstairs in the long low dining-room, the table was prepared for tea. Daphne had decorated room and table with autumn leaves, and ferns, and flowers. In the centre stood a handsome birthday cake of Irene's making and decorating, and surrounding it was dish after dish of tartlets, and cakes, and other things such as made the children gaze at the clock anxiously, fully assured that it had stopped.

"It must be five o'clock, or six," sighed Tom. "I am sure it is three or four hours since dinner-time."

"I didn't eat any dinner," announced Daphne, "when I saw what Irene had made, I thought I would wait. You see, it was a boiled mutton dinner, and I can't bear boiled mutton."

"Some of the things you saw are for supper," laughed Irene, "so I am afraid you have a long time to wait yet."

Daphne's face fell. "Four hours more! Never mind, I don't want the time to hurry past—though it will."

Faith, the same happy, bright-faced Faith, strolled up to the window, one hand tucked affectionately through old Mr. Vivian's arm, the other leading Joan. In the sunshine her hair glowed like a halo round her head; on the bosom of her white dress glowed her ruby cross. Her frock was only of the cheapest soft muslin, but it was sound and neat, her shoes had all their buttons on, her stockings were guiltless of darns of another colour. In her pretty brown eyes love beamed on all, and happiness.

"Who would like a donkey ride?" called out Mr. Vivian. "Tom, Daphne, are you coming? Debby, where's my little Debby?"

Debby was never far from Tom, nor from Mr. Vivian when she could be with him.

"Audrey, are you coming too?"

"I don't know," said Audrey, smiling. "I want to go with you, and I want to be here in case mother needs me."

"And I want you," said Irene, in the midst of bustling round. "I want you very particularly."

"The truth is," said Mr. Vivian, his kind old eyes resting on her very tenderly, "we all need you. We can't get on without you. Never mind, wait for your mother, child. She needs you most of all." And with a wave of the hand they left.

Audrey went outside and rested on a seat in the sunshine. On the roof Keith's pigeons sat cooing amiably; the mingled sweetness of 'cherry-pie' and mignonette filled the warm air. Daphne's cat Snowdrop, once Debby's kitten, lay stretched out comfortably on the warm, red-tiled path.

How beautiful it all was, how peaceful. Audrey sitting lost in almost a rapture of enjoyment, did not hear soft footsteps approaching, until Irene dropped on to the seat beside her.

"Audrey," she said eagerly, "I do want a few minutes alone with you. There is something—very special—I want to talk to you about."

Audrey looked round interestedly. "Well?" she said. "You know Christmas is not so very far off."

Audrey laughed lightly. "Christmas! Just imagine being able to think of Christmas—winter—on a day like this!"

"I am not thinking of winter, only of Christmas—and our party."

"A Christmas party? Oh, Irene!"

"Yes. I must tell you quickly, or someone may come. Mother suggested it only this morning—that we have a party, and—and act your play!"

Irene looked at her triumphantly, her pretty eyes bright with excitement.

"My play? Oh!" Audrey blushed scarlet. She seemed quite overcome.

"Irene, Irene," called her mother from within the house, and Irene sprang to her feet. "Think about it," she said, lightly touching Audrey's hot cheek with her finger, "think of the fun of the rehearsals, and all the rest."

"Think about it!" There was little need to tell Audrey to do that. She thought and thought, and at first she felt she could never face it all; then, by degrees, the idea grew less distasteful, more pleasant, then at last she laughed.

"A penny for your thoughts, Audrey," a sweet soft voice broke the silence, and brought Audrey back from a happy future to the blissful present. Looking up she saw her mother leaning on Irene's arm.

"I couldn't sell them," she said, laughing and springing to her feet, "they were too, too lovely, but not nearly as lovely, mother, as seeing you here and walking about."

Mrs. Carlyle sank on to the seat with a happy sigh. "I can hardly believe I am myself," she said, smiling. "I am almost afraid I shall wake up and find it is all a dream—as I have done so often."

"Oh, this is no dream," laughed Irene, "it is all very real. Look at those bad sparrows, fighting over a piece of bread. Listen to the pigeons calling for their tea, and look at my bed of verbenas, all raised from seeds by my very own hand. It is only Audrey who dreams. Audrey, will you give us your thoughts, as they are not to be bought?"

"Yes," said Audrey, her grey eyes shining bright with happiness. "I am thinking that in all the world there is nothing so beautiful as home, no happiness so great as——"

"As that which comes from helping others," said Mrs. Carlyle softly, and drawing her dearly loved daughter to her. "Oh, my dear, how blessed I am in my children, and in their friends;—my children too," she added softly, as she drew Irene to her, and kissed first one and then the other.

Mrs. Vivian came to the door and looked out, smiling at them.

"Will you come now? Tea is ready," she called cheerfully. And, with one supporting her on either side, Mrs. Carlyle went in to the house to cut her birthday cake.

THE END.



[Transcriber's note:

Chapter III

'and the mudde which reigned in both'

corrected to:

'and the muddle which reigned in both'

Chapter IX

'innocent little oke'

corected to:

'innocent little joke']