Perhaps, after all, Audrey's move to the attic was a good one. She herself was certainly happier, and the others were happier too, for to feel that someone is always discontented and miserable, is very depressing, and to know that someone is finding fault with everything one does, is apt to make one irritable and faultfinding too.
In her new room Audrey found a great interest. She did all she could to make it pretty—it was the only part of the house that she did try to make pretty. On her writing-table she had always a vase of fresh flowers, and another on her dressing-table, and a jar of tall ferns in the grate. All that was easy enough to manage, but she found it rather a trial to have to make her own bed every day, and keep her room swept and dusted.
Living with her granny, where everything was done for her, and the housework went on with the regularity of machinery, and without any share in it, or interest in it, on Audrey's part, she had grown up with a knowledge only of how things should look when done, but without the faintest idea of how to do them, or of the trouble it cost to make things nice, and keep them so. It had never occurred to her that to keep furniture brightly polished, and brass and silver too, windows gleaming, and window curtains spotless, meant constant care on somebody's part, and hard work too. She was beginning, though, to learn the value now of many things that she had taken for granted before.
"If one did all that needs doing about a house," she said, excusingly to herself, "one would have no time for anything else, and I do want to write. If I could sell my stories I could help father tremendously, and that is far more important than dusting and cooking, and looking after the children. Faith can do that, she has no taste for writing. When lessons begin I shall have less time than ever for it, so I really must do all I can now." And fired with enthusiasm and importance, she shut herself up more and more in her attic, and Faith was left to look after her mother, and the children, and the house, pretty much as she was before; and if the muddle did not grow greater, it certainly did not grow less under Audrey's rule.
"If you want to keep this house tidy you must always be tidying it," she grumbled, and to be always tidying it was certainly the last thing she wished or intended. So, as long as her own attic was neat and fragrant, she closed her eyes to the rest and was, apparently, content to let things go on as she found them.
"Audrey, will you sit with mother this evening while I go to church?" Faith opened her sister's door nervously, and the face which appeared round it was decidedly apologetic. She was always afraid that she might be interrupting Audrey at a critical point in the story she was writing, and she generally was too.
This May Sunday was an exception though. Audrey did not write stories on Sundays, she only thought about them. Occasionally she wrote a letter to her granny, or to a school friend. She was thinking of a story now, when Faith disturbed her, a very sentimental one, as she sat by her bedroom window and gazed at the road winding up to the moor. 'He'—the lover—was striding along it with set jaws and haggard eyes, while 'she'—the heroine—sat at just such a window as Audrey's own, and gazed after him through tear-filled eyes. And Audrey was just trying to decide whether 'she' should wave a relenting handkerchief and call him back, or watch him depart for ever and die of a broken heart, when Faith popped her head in.
"Very well," she said, and sighed.
"And will you get her a glass of milk at seven? She must not have it later or she will have indigestion all night——"
"Oh, I know all about that, of course." Faith so often forgot that she, Audrey, was the eldest,—and mistress of the house for the time.
"And will you read to her——"
"Oh there is no need to do that, mother and I can always find plenty to talk about, we have so many tastes alike——"
"She likes to have the Evening Service read to her, and the hymns and the lessons. The numbers of the hymns are on a slip of paper on the mantelpiece. I will go now and see that Tom and Debby are getting ready."
"All right." It never occurred to Audrey to go and see to them for Faith, while she got herself ready.
"Oh, and Audrey, Joan is in bed, but will you go in and look at her after I have gone to see that she is covered up? she throws off——"
"Oh yes, of course, I'll attend to everything. Don't worry so."
"Thank you. I will see to the supper when I come back. Mary is out to-night."
"Oh, is she! What a bother. Never mind, I'll look after things and sit with mother. I want to talk to her about a story I am going to write."
"Oh, Audrey, how lovely!" Faith gazed at her sister with eyes full of wistful admiration. "I wish I could hear about it too."
"Oh, you wouldn't understand." Nevertheless, Audrey was very well pleased with her sister's appreciation.
"But I could listen, and try to. Will you have done before I come home?"
"Oh yes, of course."
Tom began to shout from down below and Faith started off at a run. "He can't find his hat and I promised to help him look for it," she added hastily.
"Faith," Audrey called after her, "don't say anything to anybody else about my story," she added in a lower tone as she leaned over the stairs. "Don't tell father, or the children, or—or Mary. I don't want anyone to know anything about it until I have sold some—at least, only mother and you."
Faith nodded back brightly, immensely pleased at being trusted with the mighty secret. She was very proud of Audrey and thought her cleverness quite remarkable.
Mrs. Carlyle was proud of her daughter too, and pleased that, at any rate, one of her children inherited her talent for writing. At least her taste—she hoped that in time it would prove a talent. And for nearly an hour she patiently listened and advised.
"You must not be too sure of yourself yet, dear," she said at last, a somewhat weary note in her voice. "You must be content to read and practise for a long time yet——"
"But mother, I am sure I could write a story as good as one I read a few days ago—there was simply nothing in it."
"But Audrey, you surely would not be content to write a story only as good as a very poor one! Your aim should be to write one better than a very good one."
"To begin with, mother! I couldn't do that to begin with—and oh, I do want to see one in print!"
Mrs. Carlyle sighed. She was very tired. "I thought you wanted my advice, dear," she said gently. "Now, will you read me the Psalms, please. My books have been waiting such a long time for you to begin. They will be home from church before we have read the lessons, I am afraid. Oh, I am afraid I must trouble you to get me my glass of milk now, before we begin. I shall not be able to take it if I leave it any later. I wonder if Joan is all right? I have not heard her call, have you?"
Audrey jumped up hurriedly and ran into the next room.
Baby Joan was asleep, but with the bed-clothes kicked back and all her little body exposed to the night breeze from the open window.
"Oh dear," sighed Audrey impatiently, "I think children do things on purpose to annoy one." She was cross because she was really alarmed. Joan was very cold, she must have been lying uncovered for nearly an hour. "She really deserved a whipping." Audrey covered the little body up warmly and hurried back to her mother's room with her tale of woe. She had quite forgotten the glass of milk.
Mrs. Carlyle did not grow irritable as she listened, though she had every reason to be, but she was greatly worried. "I should have reminded you to go in and see that she was all right," she said, full of self-reproach. "Isn't it dreadful to think that if Faith goes out we can none of us be trusted to take care of anything properly!" She did not again remind Audrey of the glass of milk.
Audrey did not relish the reproach. She was always a little sore about Faith's pre-eminence in the house. "You see it isn't my work," she said shortly, "if it had been I expect I should not have forgotten. It is frightfully hard to remember other people's little odds and ends of work when they happen to be out."
"Did not Faith ask you to look after baby while she was away?"
"Yes—but——"
"Then it was your work, Audrey."
"Oh, well, I am very sorry. I quite forgot, but I expect Joan will be all right. Now I will read to you, mother. Which hymn would you like?"
Mrs. Carlyle's mind at that moment was not in tune for any reading. She was troubled about her baby girl, and almost more troubled about her big girl. Her heart was heavy, her head ached, she felt tired too, and faint.
Audrey also was out of humour with herself and everything. She was disappointed in her mother's advice about her writing. She was angry with herself for failing in her duty, she was nervous about Joan, and over and above all she was disappointed in her Sunday. It did not seem like a Sunday—the happy beautiful day that comes bringing sunshine to the heart and sweetness and peace to the home, giving to all strength and courage to take up the burden of daily work again, and go singing on one's way.
Audrey had been late for prayers in the morning, and Debby had annoyed her on her way to church by appearing with a hole in her stocking; while at dinnertime she had been so annoyed by the sight of finger-marks on her tumbler, that she had neither given thanks for her food nor returned them.
The afternoon which she had longed to give up to reading she had had to devote to the Sunday School. She did not like children, and she detested teaching, "but, of course, if you very much dislike a thing you are bound to have it thrust on you, and if you love a thing very much, well, that is quite enough to prevent your being able to have it." She cried bitterly in the solitude of her own room. She went to the school and she took her class, but neither pupils nor teacher benefited by the lessons. To the children she was cold and unsympathetic. She took no interest in them or their doings; and they in their turn did not like her. And, more than that, they judged other teachers by her.
"If that's what Sunday School teachers is like, you don't catch me coming again," declared Millie Pope, who had been coaxed by a friend into coming for the first time. "If being good makes you as sharp and sour as she is—well, I don't want to be good."
Audrey had not heard the remarks that were made, but she felt that she had been a failure, and her heart was heavy. She was vexed and sorry, and annoyed with herself and everything, for she knew that she had not done her best, that she had failed in her duty. And she knew as well as though they had told her that the children had not liked her.
Oh, it had been a failure, that May Sunday. The birds had sung their blithest, the hedges were white with hawthorn, the air sweet with the scent of flowers, the sun had shone all day—and yet it had been a grey Sunday, begun badly, continued badly, ending badly—because the right spirit was lacking.
"Would you like me to read to you now, mother?" she asked again, but doubtfully. Something told her that the time was past, that the sweet calm pleasure was not to be caught now. And before Mrs. Carlyle could answer her, footsteps sounded in the garden, and Faith, followed by Debby and Tom, came rushing up the stairs.
"Oh, we have had such a lovely time," but Faith catching sight of her mother's wan face, stopped abruptly. "Aren't you feeling so well, mummy? —are you faint? Have you had anything since we have been gone?"
Audrey sprang up with a cry of dismay and flew from the room. "It is too late now, dear," said the invalid feebly, but Audrey did not hear her.
"It is too late now," called Faith, rushing after her. "I will make her some Benger——" Their footsteps and voices died away.
"Oh, what a pity!" sighed Deborah, "we've got such a lot to tell, and we wanted you to be well enough to listen, mother."
"We've had quite an advencher," cried Tom, his eyes wide with excitement, "and father asked them to supper——"
"But you mustn't tell," interrupted Debby reprovingly, "not till Faith comes. It wouldn't be fair—and Audrey too, 'cause it's Audrey that knows them."
Mrs. Carlyle beckoned Debby to her side. "Run down, darling, and tell Faith not to make me any Benger, it takes so long, and I don't want her to stay now. I will have some jelly instead, and a slice of bread. Tell her to come quickly, and Audrey too. I am longing to hear about your 'advencher.'"
Mrs. Carlyle kissed her little daughter very tenderly. She loved to have them come to her with all their little joys and woes. It was one of the chief pleasures of her slowly returning health.
In a very short time Debby came racing back again, a plate in her hand with a slice of bread on it. "It's all right," she cried triumphantly, "it hasn't fell'd, I put my thumb on it so's it shouldn't!"
Mrs. Carlyle smiled to herself. "I hope it was a nice clean thumb," she said gently. "Another time, dear, it will be better to walk more slowly, for you should never put your finger on another person's food."
"Oh!" Debby looked disappointed. "But it was such a safe way, mummy, it never fell'd once. Audrey and Faith were so slow. Faith was dusting a tray and Audrey was turning out all the drawers looking for a tray-cloth to put on it, and—and I couldn't wait. I wanted you to hear all about who we've seen—oh, here they are at last!"
They had evidently been successful in finding a cloth of some kind, for Audrey came in carrying a neatly laid tray, with a plate of jelly on it, a spoon, and a table-napkin; while Faith walked behind, her face beaming with triumph.
"Doesn't that look tempting, mother?"
"Indeed it does! and what a luxury to have the table-napkin remembered. Is that Audrey's doing?"
"Yes—and oh, Audrey, I've been longing all this time to tell you. Whatdoyou think—we've met some friends of yours. There were strangers in church—I didn't know them, but father and Debby and Tom did—at least they recognised them, and after service was over they were standing about in the churchyard as if they were looking for someone—and it was you! And who do you think they were?"
Audrey groaned. "What do you mean?" she asked irritably. "Who was me? and who was looking for what? and how should I know who anyone was if you don't explain? Can't you tell all about it so that anyone can understand you?"
Faith put a restraint upon herself and began again. "I mean it was you that the strangers were looking for. They are called Vivian—they are the grandchildren of Mr. Vivian at Abbot's Field. You know, mummy," turning to her mother. "They said they travelled with Audrey the day she came home. Why didn't you tell us, Audrey?"
"Perhaps Audrey did not know who they were," suggested Mrs. Carlyle gently, seeing that Audrey looked confused and remained silent.
Audrey grew red and uncomfortable, but made no reply.
"They said they saw daddy and me and Tom on the platform," burst in Debby, breaking an awkward pause. "They didn't know he was the vicar, but they came over to try and see you at church, and then they saw daddy, and then they looked round and saw me and Tom, and Faith—of course they didn't know Faith, but they guessed she was another of us because of her red hair. And they waited until we came out of church to speak to us—they wanted to inquire for Audrey."
"And oh, they are so nice, mother dear," chimed in Faith excitedly. "You will love them. They are coming here to see you."
"I am so glad, dear, it will be nice for you to have companions. Did you not know who they were, Audrey, and where they were going to stay?"
Audrey nodded. She was looking embarrassed, troubled and vexed. "Yes, mother, at least, they said they were going to stay with a Mr. Vivian, but—but I did not know him—and I—I didn't know them——"
"Did you like them, dear?"
"Yes, but I only saw them for a little while, of course. We did not travel all the way together. They weren't with me when daddy met me." She spoke quickly, hurrying out a jumble of excuses.
"They are so jolly and friendly one could not help liking them," cried Faith enthusiastically.
"Daddy asked them to come back with us to supper," chimed in Tom, "and they did wish they could, but they had to walk the three miles home and their mother would be anxious about them if they were late."
"Their mother! Was their mother with them, Audrey, when you travelled together?"
"Yes."
"Oh, what must she think of us," cried poor Mrs. Carlyle, really distressed. "Such near neighbours, and to have taken no notice of them all these weeks. We knew her husband quite well before he married——"
"But they are coming to see us, mummy," cried Debby consolingly. "They are coming one day very soon. They said so."
Audrey nearly groaned. She thought of the ragged garden, the shabby house; the ill-cooked, untidily served meals—and she felt she could have cried. "Why couldn't they have stayed at home? Why must they come tearing over to Moor End? and oh, what must they think of her for never having mentioned them to her people, after their kindness and friendliness too, in inviting her over to see them! Oh dear, how wrong everything in this world did go!"
"Are you not pleased, Audrey? Don't you want to see them again?" Mrs. Carlyle inquired anxiously.
"Oh, yes—oh, yes, mother, I should like to see them if—if we had a nice place to ask them to, but they must be rich, they probably have everything, and 'The Orchard' is such a big house.——"
"You—you were not ashamed of us—of your home, were you, Audrey?" The words and the tone went to Audrey's heart like a knife twisted in a wound. She would have given all she possessed to be able to say 'no' with all her heart and soul. But she could not. Nor could she tell a lie. So she stood there, silent and ashamed, and grieved to her heart by the knowledge of the pain she was inflicting.
No one spoke to break the horrible silence which fell on the room. With all their pleasure gone, Faith and the little ones crept quietly away, and, after a moment, Audrey, not knowing what else to do, turned and followed them. She longed for some word, some sign from her mother, but none came. It was too soon to ask for her forgiveness yet. It was too much to ask, for it would be only asking for comfort for herself, it would not lessen the pain she had given to others. Nothing could do that, nothing, at least, but time, and never-ceasing effort on her part.
With a heart as heavy as lead, she crept slowly down the stairs. In the hall Faith met her, Faith with eyes sparkling with an anger Audrey had never seen in them before.
"Oh, how could you!" she cried, her voice trembling with indignation, "how could you be so cruel! And why are you ashamed of us, because we are poor? because we are shabby? and untidy? If it is because we are untidy, why don't you show us how to do better, why don't you help? If it is because we are poor, and everything is shabby—it isn't our fault. We would have everything fresh and beautiful if we could. I don't mind, for myself, what you say or think—but oh, Audrey, how could you hurt mother so; how could you; how could you?"
The anger died suddenly out of Faith's eyes, washed away by tears.
"I am so awfully, awfully sorry," said Audrey, the pain in her heart sounding in her voice.
"But you—you didn't mean it!" Faith asked, but in more gentle tone. "You didn't mean it?"
"I—I did," stammered Audrey, with quivering lip, "but—I don't now. I myself am the only thing I am ashamed of now," and bursting into tears she flew upstairs again and shut herself in her attic.
Almost before her eyes were open the next morning, Audrey felt as though some big black weight lay upon her, as though something very dreadful had happened. And then gradually sleep cleared from her brain, and recollection came back.
She had been petty, mean, and everyone knew it, everyone must despise her. She had hurt her own mother, she had hurt them all. She had shown them that she was ashamed of them—and why? Not because they had done anything wrong, or despicable, but because they were poor and were obliged to live in a shabby house, shabbily furnished!
"Oh, I can never live it down," she thought miserably. "I can never make them forget, and think well of me again!" She buried her face in her pillow and groaned aloud. She wished wildly for all sort of impossible things to happen, that she could put miles and miles, and oceans and continents between herself and everybody—or that she could wipe out all recollection of her foolishness from everyone's mind, or never, never have to meet the Vivians again.
There is no way, though, of blotting out in a moment our wrongdoing, our foolishness, our mistakes. They cannot be wiped off, as a sum off a slate, nor the results, nor the memory of them. There is nothing to be done but to face the consequences bravely, to live them down hour by hour; so, profiting by the lesson thus learnt, that in time those about us will find it hard to believe that we ever were so foolish, or wicked. Through genuine repentance and sorrow only can we expiate our faults, and Audrey had sense enough to know this.
"I have just got to live through it," she sighed miserably, "but oh, I wish I hadn't hurt mother so."
As she was passing her mother's bedroom door on her way downstairs, a sudden impulse made her knock.
"Come in," said the sweet kind voice; but as she turned the handle Audrey's courage nearly failed her. "Oh, it's nothing," she began, and was turning away when fortunately the thought came to her—how glad she would be after, if she were brave now, and did what she came in to do. "It will be a beginning," she told herself feverishly, "I shall be much happier after," and allowing herself no more time for thought, she marched bravely in and up to the bed.
"Mother," she said, and the tears rushed to her eyes again. "I want you to try to forget—please,please. It was all a mistake. I was all—all wrong. I am so sorry."
"My dear, I know, I understand." Her mother threw her arms round her, and drew her gently down beside her. "I know how these things happen, if we are not always loyal in thought and in deed. I have failed often, Audrey dear, so I understand. But we will both forget, darling." And then Audrey broke down entirely. "Mother, I can never forget, I can never forgive myself, but I will try never to be so mean again, never. I am going to begin to-day to do better. I really mean to."
"We all will, we will begin by trying to understand each other, shall we? Try to be more patient, and to see how things seem to others. Don't you think a good motto for us all would be 'others first.'"
"I don't think Faith needs that motto, mother," said Audrey wistfully, which was a great admission for her, and the first step on the new road she meant to tread.
"Oh yes, she does, dear. We all do, some more, some less."
"Well, I am one who needs it very much more," and Audrey smiled ruefully as she raised herself. "Now I am going down to see what I can do to help. I will begin by laying her breakfast-tray as nicely and temptingly as ever I can," she thought, as she hurried away. She felt so lighthearted she wanted to do something for everyone, to make all feel as happy as she did herself. But alas, alas! when she got downstairs her happiness received a check. Joan was ill.
In the kitchen Audrey found Faith seated by the kitchen fire with Joan upon her lap. Joan drowsy and feverish, and fretful. Faith anxious and pale.
"I believe she is ill," said Faith, looking up at her with eyes full of alarm, "she has been so restless all night. I wonder what can be the matter. I have been so careful about her food, and I don't see how she can have got a cold."
Joan turned uneasily, and began to whimper, Mary came over and looked anxiously at the flushed baby face. "She's feverish, Miss Faith, she's got a cold somehow. She is so hot, and it seems to hurt her to move."
With a swift shock of fear Audrey remembered what had happened the previous evening—the little thinly-clad body lying outside the bed-clothes, exposed to the draught from the open window. She coloured guiltily, but for a moment she hesitated to speak. It was so dreadful to have to heap more blame upon herself—to have to make everyone think more hardly of her, just when she had begun to try to make them think better. But once again she conquered herself, and so took another step, and a long one, along the new but stony road she had set out to tread.
Faith looked grave as she listened. She adored her baby sister, and she found it hard not to blame Audrey. "I ought not to have gone away," she began irritably, but stopped, as it struck her what a self-righteous and conceited thing it was that she was saying. "I had better put her back to bed again, I expect," she concluded, more gently.
"I suppose so," agreed Audrey doubtfully. She did not in the least know what to do in a case of illness. Mary came to the rescue. Mary had lots of brothers and sisters at home, and had had a good deal of experience.
"I shouldn't, miss," she said, "in this summer weather it is so hard to keep them covered up, and restless as Miss Joan is, she wouldn't have the bedclothes over her more'n a minute at a time. I'd give her a nice deep hot bath here by the fire, and then wrap her up in a big shawl, and keep her by the fire. It'll be hot for anybody that's holding her, but I believe it'll drive the chill out of her quicker than anything."
"I'll do anything to get her well again," said Faith eagerly. So a bath was made ready—all the water that was needed for breakfast was used for it, but that was a trifling matter, and Mary's advice was followed to the letter.
"Now I'll get her some hot milk," said Mary, as she arranged the last wrap around the little patient, and put the cookery book under Faith's feet for a footstool.
"Oh!" gasped Faith, "don't make up too big a fire, Mary, or I shall really explode!"
Audrey, ashamed and sorry, moved about unobtrusively trying to do what she could; but it was mortifying to her to find how little she could do. At last it occurred to her to go upstairs and see if Tom and Debby wanted any help in the fastening of strings and buttons, and the brushing of hair.
"Oh dear," she sighed, "you have only one button left on your frock, Debby, and the string of your apron is broken. Can't you put on another?"
"They've all only got one string, you will find a safety pin somewhere, I have it pinned gen'rally."
"Oh! well, I will mend them for you when I've got time."
"Faith said she would when she'd got time, but when she'd got time she hadn't got any tape, and when we remembered to buy some tape we couldn't find a bodkin. Where does one buy bodkins, Audrey?"
"I don't know, but I have two in my work-box. I will put in the tapes for you. Now run down while I turn out the beds. Oh no, come here," as the pair went dashing away, "come and fold up your nightgowns, you should never leave them lying on the floor like that. Who do you think is going to fold them for you? I believe you never think of the trouble you give."
Tom and Debby went back patiently, and picking up their offending garments, struggled with them valiantly. But, however careful they were, it seemed as though one sleeve would hang out, or the folds would go crooked, simply for the purpose of aggravating two impatient little people.
"I wish we didn't have sleeves," sighed Deborah.
"Let's cut them off," cried Tom, and in a spirit of mischief, picked up a pair of scissors and pretended to cut the sleeve.
He was only pretending, but Audrey misunderstood, and, with a sharp slap on the hands, sent the scissors skimming across the floor.
The unexpectedness of the blow, the pain, and the indignity, roused Tom to real anger, and for a few moments there was an ugly scene. Debby cried, Tom raged, and Audrey scolded. "You can fold the old thing yourself," cried Tom, flinging out of the room. Audrey dragged him back.
"I shall not, you shall do it yourself if you have to stay here all day. I shall speak to father about your behaviour, and I do think you might have tried to behave decently and not have made such a noise when Joan is ill, and we want her to sleep. You think of no one but yourselves—you two."
"Joan ill! You might have told us before. How were we to know? and—and you were making more noise than anybody, and—and it was all your fault in the beginning," cried Tom. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself Audrey, you are the eldest, and—and you knew Joan was ill."
Debby was less angry, and more concerned. "Where is Joan?" she asked anxiously. "Is she in bed?"
"She is in the kitchen by the fire, so don't go there making a noise too. You had better play in the garden, and do be as quiet as you can."
"I am going to see mother first," retorted Debby, "we always do when we are dressed. Mummy likes us to. And we don't make a noise if weknowwe mustn't. If you had only told us Joan was ill——"
But Audrey was already half-way down the stairs, on her way to the kitchen. "Children are such worries," she sighed. "Now I will get mother's breakfast."
In the kitchen she found Faith sitting patiently by the fire, she was scarlet with the heat, and very weary, but there was a look of relief in her eyes. "She is sleeping so comfortably," she whispered. "That shows that she is in less pain, doesn't it?"
"I should think so. You look awfully hot."
"Hot! I am roasting, I feel quite faint every now and then, but I don't mind anything if it is doing Joan good."
"Can't you put her down? Make her up a bed on a chair or something, can't you?"
"No. She rouses at once if I try to put her out of my arms. I would rather hold her. It doesn't matter about being hot. I shall cool down again some day."
Audrey picked up a tray. "I am going to get mother's breakfast," she announced. "I want to make it look nice. Mary, can you wipe this tray for me, it has something sticky on it."
Mary put down her saucepan of milk and went away with the tray in her hand. "I s'pose it must have touched something," she said cheerfully.
"Yes, evidently—and you couldn't have washed it properly. It has made my hands sticky too." It really was aggravating, for she had only just washed them. "Where can I find a clean tray-cloth, Mary?"
"In the drawer of the press, miss."
Audrey's face wore an expression of deep disdain as she turned over the collection of things in the untidy drawer. "I can't see anything fit to use," she said irritably. "Where are the clean ones kept, Mary?"
"We have only two, miss, one is in the wash, the other you've got in your hand. It is a bit crumpled, I am afraid."
"If we've got so few, it's a pity not to take more care of those we have," grumbled Audrey, "this really is not fit to use, but I suppose I must." When she began to collect the china, the cup, as usual, had a smear on it, and the plate was not clean. "I had better wash it all, I suppose, as usual!" she thought impatiently, and banged open the tea-towel drawer with such force that Joan started out of her sleep.
"I'd have got the tray ready, if you'd left it, Miss Audrey," said Mary shortly.
"I wanted to make it look nice and tempting."
Poor Faith grew to look harassed and miserable. Whatever happened, she did not want a collision between Audrey and Mary. Mary was rough, and not thorough, but she was good-tempered, hard-working, and ready to turn her hand to anything.
Mr. Carlyle came into the kitchen. "Is breakfast nearly ready?" he asked, "it is nine o'clock, and I have a full day before me—why, Baby! what is the matter?" He stood looking down at his two flushed daughters, while Faith explained. "But I think she is better," she concluded eagerly, "look, daddy, she is smiling at you! If we are careful all day, I daresay she will be well to-morrow."
"And do you intend to sit by that fire all day with her! Why, you will be a cinder."
Faith laughed, "I am rather hot, but it has done her good, I am sure—at least the hot bath and the heat has. Mary thought of it, wasn't it clever of her?"
"I will take her presently, Miss Faith, while you have your breakfast," said Mary, much gratified by the little compliment.
Mr. Carlyle went over to where Audrey stood arranging a few flowers on her mother's tray. "How dainty!" he said approvingly, "your mother will appreciate that, dear. She loves pretty, dainty things about her. I am going over to Abbot's Field to-day," he added, "and I thought I would call on Mrs. Vivian, and the old gentleman. Will you come with me, to represent your mother? I think it would be rather pleasant, don't you?"
Audrey coloured with embarrassment. To her the prospect did not seem at all pleasant. "I—I am afraid I can't, father. I have a lot to do at home."
Her mind was full of plans for tidying house and garden, and making everything more presentable. It was a big undertaking, she knew, but she was full of zeal.
Her father looked disappointed. "Oh well, then, I must go alone. I thought you would like to meet the young people again—and I think they still expect you—they were so anxious to see you. But never mind, I will tell them that you are busy, but are hoping to see them over here one day very soon. I had better fix a day; will Thursday do?"
"Thursday! so soon!" The suggestion filled her with dismay, but she kept her dismay to herself. "Yes, father, I think so," she said feebly, and lifting up the tray went slowly with it to her mother's room. Debby was sitting on the bed, chattering quite happily, all the temper forgotten.
"Oh, how pretty," she cried, as she caught sight of the breakfast tray.
"Oh, how tempting," said Mrs. Carlyle, smiling her appreciation, "the sight of it gives me quite an appetite."
"Do you always do trays like that?" asked Tom, "or is it a birthday?"
"Yes, always. No, it is not a birthday. It is the right way, that's all."
"When I am ill in bed, will you bring up my breakfast to me on a tray with a white cloth, and a flower, and a dear little dainty teapot of my own?" asked Debby eagerly.
"Yes," laughed Audrey, "but don't try to be ill on purpose."
"I think I will wait until the new governess comes," said Debby gravely. She could not endure the thought of lessons, and of being shut up for ever so many hours a day.
As soon as breakfast was over Audrey stepped out at the front door, and surveyed the garden. "It is the first thing they will see," she thought despondingly, as, with the expected guests in her mind, she looked from the ragged grass to the unswept path, and thence to the untrimmed bushes. "I wish I could get Job Toms to cut the grass. I must ask father to order him to."
Faith on her way back to the kitchen and Joan, saw Audrey in the garden and joined her. "I wish we had flower beds on either side of the path," said Audrey, "they would look so pretty, but I suppose the children would always walk on them."
"They wouldn't if they were told not to," declared Faith, always ready to champion the little imps. "What a jolly idea, Audrey. If Joan wasn't ill I'd come out this minute and begin to make them. It wouldn't take very long."
"Oh yes, it would, to make them properly. We ought to have a real gardener to do it, and then we should want dozens of bedding plants, we should have to have something to start with. But all that would cost very nearly a sovereign, I expect."
"I hadn't thought of having bedding plants," said Faith, disappointedly. "Of course we couldn't spend money on plants. I was thinking of roots, and seeds, and cuttings. The people in the village would gladly give us a lot. Mrs. Pope offered me young sunflower seedlings only a week or two ago, and Miss Babbs is always offering me phloxes, and wallflowers, and things. We could soon fill up the beds, I am sure, and with things that would come up year after year by themselves. Let's each make a bed for ourselves, shall we, Audrey, and each do our own in our own way. It would make the garden look ever so much nicer."
"I couldn't, and if I can't, you can't, at least you oughtn't to. It would look too silly to have a bed on only one side. The garden would look like a pig with one ear."
"It would be a very pretty pig," laughed Faith, "at least its one ear would."
"Anyhow, we couldn't get it done by Thursday, and what I wanted was to try and get the place looking nicer by the time the Vivians come. Now I am going in to see if I can do anything to the drawing-room."
"Oh!" Faith's face grew grave. "Do you think we need use the drawing-room? Won't the dining-room do? You see we have taken some of the nicest things from there for mother's room—to make that as nice as possible. The curtains, and the carpet."
"Whatever are we going to do!" cried Audrey in genuine dismay. "It really is too dreadful. Father oughtn't to ask people here if we haven't a room fit to ask them into. You see wemustuse the drawing-room."
"What for?"
"Why, for tea, of course, for one thing."
"Oh!" cried Faith, "don't let's have a dotted-around-the-room tea! The children make such a mess with their crumbs, they can't help it, and they are sure to upset their cups, and drop their plates—and we shall be in one big worry all the time. They hate those teas, and so do I! Let's have a nice comfortable one in the dining-room, and sit up to table."
"And spend all the rest of the time there too, I suppose?" sarcastically.
Faith looked pained. "Well, I don't suppose they would mind very much if we did, as long as we were all jolly and happy. They seemed so kind and friendly, and not a bit stuck up."
"Oh," cried Audrey impatiently, "you seem to think anything will do, as long as you are happy and jolly. You don't realise what other people are accustomed to, and expect."
"I think I am glad I don't," said Faith gravely, "it only seems to worry one."
"I do wish you would keep your blind straight in your bedroom," retorted Audrey irritably, "no house could possibly look nice with the blinds all anyhow, as ours are."
"Um, yes, they do look bad, we ought to have sticks for them, tape is always getting loose. Audrey," eagerly, "suppose we take our tea up on the moor, and have a kind of picnic, when the Vivians come. Wouldn't that be rather jolly?"
Audrey's face brightened. "Yes, that might be a good plan. They would not be in the house much then."
"Mother would want to see them."
"Would she? Oh, well, she could. I'd like them to know mother—and her room is quite presentable. We shall have to get some nice cakes. I wonder if we have any baskets that will do to carry the things in? And oh! I do hope that Mary will wash the cups and saucers properly that day. She is so horribly careless, one can't trust her the least little bit. I always have to look at my cup before I drink, to see if it is clean."
Faith looked at her with troubled eyes. "The best plan would be to wash them all yourself that day," she suggested, "then you would be sure they would be all right, and have quite a load off your mind. You can easily offer to wash the dishes and things for Mary, because she will have extra work to do, and then you can put aside those that we shall want in the afternoon. I will go and look out the baskets by and by. Do remind me if I forget. Oh, I must hurry in now, poor Mary is sitting by the fire all this time holding Joan, she will be roasted alive."
Audrey made no reply to her sister's suggestion. She liked things to be dainty, and clean, but she did not like the task of making them so; and to expect her to wash the dishes herself was really rather too much!
The head of a house did not expect to have to do the work herself. Her part was to tell others what to do, and see that they did it. At least that was her opinion.
The next two or three days simply raced by, in what, to Audrey, seemed a hopeless struggle against all odds. It certainly was a struggle, but not quite a hopeless one, for by the time Thursday dawned bright and beautiful, a day to cheer even the most uncheerful, many small changes had been wrought in the Vicarage and in the garden. And Audrey had brought them about. Not by herself, certainly, but by the simple process of worrying others until they did what she wanted done.
It is only fair, though, to admit that hers had been the ruling spirit. If it had not been for her, none of the improvements would have been made.
Mary had cleaned all the windows, Faith had, somehow, managed to get rods, and had straightened all the blinds. By offering a ha'penny to the one who swept and raked the garden paths most thoroughly, the garden path was swept and raked until the weeds and the soiled gravel had been turned over and buried out of sight, and with no worse damage than a bump on Tom's forehead, where the handle of the rake had struck him, and some tears on Debby's part because she had lost the prize.
Job Toms too had even been coaxed into bringing a scythe and cutting the grass.
"It would look quite nice if Faith had not made that silly bed all along that side," Audrey admitted.
This was Faith's reward for getting up early, and slaving through the whole of a long hot day to remove the worn turf from a narrow strip of the lawn, the whole length of the path, and dig over the moist brown earth beneath. "I would do the other side too," she said, generously, when she displayed her handiwork, "only I really believe my eyes would drop out if I stooped any more. You see I'd only the trowel to do it with."
"I suppose that is why you have made such a mess, and the bed is all crooked. You should have left it for a gardener to do," said Audrey, ungraciously. "Of course, the turf should have been chopped down, and the whole thing done properly. It would have been better not to have touched it, if you couldn't do it properly."
"Don't you like it?" asked Faith, disappointedly.
"Well, it spoils the look of the place, doesn't it? And just when I had got it made almost fit to look at, for once. I daresay it might be quite pretty if the bed was full of flowers," she added, in a less caustic tone, "as I suppose it will be some day. As it is—well, you must admit it looks a hopeless botch, doesn't it?"
Faith did not reply. There was no need to, and she felt that she could not. Instead, she walked away and down to the village, where she had many friends, and a little later returned with a collection of roots and cuttings and seedlings, which would have taken another person hours to plant properly, but which Faith got into the ground somehow in less than one. She had been too dead beat to get water and put round their roots, and it never occurred to Audrey to do so for her; so the poor things hung wilting and dejected-looking in the early morning sunshine, and only added to the unsightliness of Faith's new border.
On Thursday morning early, Tom, strolling round the garden to walk off a little of his excitement, noticed the poor drooping, dying things, and was filled with pity. Tiptoeing back to the house again for a can of water, he gave them all a drink. Deborah, coming out a few minutes later, found him standing, can in hand, rather wet about the feet and legs, gazing thoughtfully at Faith's new garden.
"I've got an idea," he whispered mysteriously, "such a jolly one! Have you any money?"
"I've got a penny. Daddy gave it to me yesterday."
"I've got two ha'pennies, the one Audrey gave me, and one I had before. Let's go down to Miss Babbs' and buy two penny packets of flower seeds, and sow them, and not say anything about it. Then when they come up everybody'll be surprised." Debby was enchanted. She loved s'prises, and this was such a pretty one. She loved, too, to back Tom up in anything he suggested.
Miss Babbs was only just taking down her shutters when her early customers arrived, so Tom was able to help her. At least, he thought he helped, and Miss Babbs would not have undeceived him for the world—even though she could have done the work herself in half the time, and with less than half the trouble.
But an even harder task than taking down the shutters, was that of deciding which of all that glorious collection of penny packets should be theirs. Such poppies! such lupins! nasturtiums of such glorious colours were pictured on each.
"I want them all!" replied Debby. "Wouldn't the garden look lovely, and wouldn't Faith be excited!"
"Why, you'd have a flower show all on your own, Miss Debby," laughed Miss Babbs, "and all for five shillings. I don't call it dear, do you?"
"Five shillings!" gasped Debby, "could I have all those for five shillings? I've got ten in the bank——"
"Best keep it there," advised Miss Babbs, sagely. She was rather alarmed by the spirit she had roused. "You never know what may 'appen."
Tom pulled Debby's apron. "Don't be silly," he said in her ear, "the flowers would all be gone by Christmas, and you know we are saving for a——" he ended his sentence by a regular fusilade of mysterious nods and winks.
"Donkey!" ejaculated Debby, innocently completing his sentence for him. "So we are. I had forgotten. I'll take one packet, please, Miss Babbs; and I'd like lupins, please, they aresobeautiful."
"And I'll have mignonette, please, 'cause mother loves it, and Faith too. Won't they be glad when it comes up! Do you think mother will be able to smell it from her room?"
"More than likely," said Miss Babbs, encouragingly. "It's wonderful strong when it's a good sort like this."
In the box where all the packets of seeds lay shuffled together, some stray seeds rolled about loose, as though looking for nice soft earth in which to bury themselves.
"Now these seeds must have come from somewhere," cried Miss Babbs, when she caught sight of them, "and somebody or other'll be 'cusing me of giving short weight, and a pretty fine thing that'll be! I never knew nothing so aggravating as what seeds is, they'll worm their way out of anything. Here Master Tom," as she chased and captured some, "take 'em home and plant 'em. Miss Debby, you 'old out your 'and too. I don't know what they are, but they're sure to be something. Those two are sunflowers, and that's a 'sturtium. I do know those, and there's a few sweet peas."
"Oh!" gasped Debby, her face beaming. "Oh, Miss Babbs, how very kind you are!" and she held up her beaming little face to kiss the prim but tenderhearted woman who had been her lifelong friend. "Faith has made a new flower bed," she explained, "she has made it all by herself, but she hasn't very much in it yet. So we wanted to put some seeds in it without her knowing anything about it, so's she would have a s'prise. Now she'll have lots of s'prises. She'll think it's the piskies, won't she?"
"Two-legged piskies, I guess," laughed Miss Babbs, knowingly, and the children were too polite to remind her that piskies never had more. "When your peas come up, Miss Deborah, you come along to me, and I will give you some fine little sticks for them."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Debby, and in the excitement they both ran off still clutching their pennies, and had to go back again with them.
They had spent so much time over their purchases, that they had only just got their seeds planted by the time the breakfast bell rang. Their great fear was that Faith might have seen them, and would ask them what they had been doing; but Faith had been so busy dressing Joan, and helping Mary in the kitchen, she had had no time to look out of the window.
Audrey, though, came full upon them as they came in with their hands earthy, and their pinafores wet, and Audrey was irritable because she was so nervous and anxious.
"I do think you children might have kept yourselves decently clean until breakfast time," she snapped, crossly. "But I am sure you must try to see how much trouble you can give. Whatever have you been doing? Something you oughtn't to, of course." She stood glowering darkly down at them, and the two bright little faces lost their brightness.
"We've been—'tending to Faith's new flower-bed," said Tom, sturdily, "the plants would have died if we hadn't watered them."
"Faith's flower-bed? It isn't Faith's any more than it is mine, or—or——"
The two looked at each other in consternation. If they had known that, they would not have spent their precious pennies in buying seeds for it. Tom's annoyance found vent in words. "If it was yours, why didn't you give it some water, then?" he demanded.
Audrey made no reply. "If you don't behave yourselves, you won't be allowed to go to the picnic this afternoon," she said sternly, as she walked away to the dining-room, leaving two mortified, angry little hearts behind her.
"I don't want to go to her old picnic," stormed Tom in his bedroom, as he scrubbed his earthy hands.
"Oh, yes, you do—it isn't Audrey's picnic," urged Debby anxiously, "it is all of ours. It is daddy's really, and—and I shall have to go, Tom, and I can't go without you, there wouldn't be anybody to talk to. Say you'll come, Tom, do. There's going to be a cake with cherries and nuts on it, and one with jam—and Faith would be so mis'rubble if you didn't come."
"All right," Tom assented, with a lordly air, "I'll come, just to show Audrey the picnic isn't hers, nor the moon neither. Don't worry."
The Vivians were to arrive soon after lunch, and not return until the seven o'clock train in the evening.
"I suppose I had better go and meet them," said Audrey, at dinner-time, "as they were my friends first."
"And as I have met them twice since then, I think I will go too," said Mr. Carlyle, laughingly. "I have to be at one of the cottages near the station this afternoon, so I will manage to be at the station by time their train comes in."
"Then I shall have time to make Joan tidy, and change my frock before they get here," said Faith quietly, as she helped the now quite recovered Joan to spoon up her pudding. Tom and Debby did not speak, but they exchanged glances which would have told a tale to anyone who had intercepted them; and as soon as they were allowed to leave the table, they strolled in a casual way to the back door, and through the yard. Then suddenly they started as though they had been stung, and raced away as fast as their legs would go.
"I wish I hadn't forgotten to take off my overall," panted Debby, as they reached the station.
A little country station does not afford many good hiding places. In common with most of its kind, Moor End had only the ticket office, station master's office, and one bare little general waiting-room, the door of which always stood invitingly open. For a second the pair stood pondering deeply, then marched up boldly, and knocking in an airy fashion at the station master's door, opened it hurriedly and marched in.
"We have come to have a little talk with you, Mr. Tripp," said Debby, with her most insinuating smile. "It is such a long time since we saw you. Tom, unfasten my overall at the back, please, and I will carry it over my arm. It is very hot to-day," she added, by way of explanation to her host.
"It is, missie, and you look hot too, Have you been running?"
"Ye-es—we did run a—a little."
"Ah! and not long had your dinner, I'll be bound. Running on one's dinner is always hot work, and apt to cause a good bit of pain sometimes."
"We didn't run on it—we ran after it," said Debby, crushingly.
"Well, anyway, miss, you didn't have to runforit," and the old man chuckled at his own joke. Tom and Debby, though, refused to smile, they felt that they were being laughed at, and they resented it.
"We ran," explained Tom, formally, "because we—we wanted to get here before the next train comes in. You—you are so busy when there's a train in, that there is no chance of talking to you."
"Ay, ay, sir," agreed Mr. Tripp, with a twinkle in his eye, "sometimes I have one passenger getting out here, sometimes I have as many as four! Market days there's a reg'lar crowd coming and going."
"Well, you'll have three, at least, by the next train," said Tom, knowingly.
"O—ho! and you have come to meet them, I suppose. A sort of a pleasant little surprise for them. I thought you'd come to have a little chat with me!"
"So we have—both. Father's coming too, and our eldest sister."
"I see, but you came on ahead. You didn't wait for them." A knock at the door broke in on the conversation. Tom and Debby grew very red, and looked slightly nervous.
"Tripp, can I speak to you a minute?" Round the door came the vicar's head.
"Oh—h! I beg your pardon, you are engaged. Hullo! Why, you young scapegraces, what are you doing here, taking up Mr. Tripp's time, and—and filling up his office!"
The two scarlet faces lost their nervous look, and became wreathed in smiles. When daddy spoke like that, all was well.
"The train is signalled, sir," said the station master, and led the way out to the platform. At that same moment Audrey came sailing down the road, hurrying as fast as she could, with dignity. She was looking as dainty and fresh as a flower in her clean white frock. She wore a pretty sun hat, trimmed with blue ribbon, and the scarf hung around her neck exactly matched it. Her long hair was tied at the nape of her neck with a black bow.
"Oh, doesn't Audrey look pretty!" Debby's enthusiastic admiration died away in a sigh as she looked down over her untidy self, and, for the first time in her life, she felt ashamed of her appearance.
"I—I wished I'd stayed to wash my hands," she whispered nervously to Tom, "and had put on my hat, it would have covered up my hair—I never brushed it."
"Oh, you are all right," responded Tom, consolingly "just button up your shoes."
"I can't, the buttons are off. Oh! and you haven't got on any tie! Oh, Tom, what will they think?"
"Well—I couldn't find it. I looked and looked. Here's the engine. Oh, Deb, doesn't she look fine?"
"Splendid," said Deborah, but only half-heartedly. She was so sorry Tom had not a tie on, and that she had not made herself look as nice as Audrey did. And when there stepped out of the train two trim figures in spotless blue cotton frocks, and a boy in an equally spotless grey flannel suit, Debby could not face them, but turned and raced off the platform and up the street as fast as her legs could take her. Too fast, indeed, for her slippers, for they dropped off very soon, and she hadn't time to stop and pick them up. It was easier to run along in stockinged feet, than in shoes that slopped off at the heels with every step she took. It was rather painful work, though, and Debby was glad when she reached the shelter of home.
"Oh, Faith!" she cried, almost falling into the room. "They have come, and they are so—so tidy, and pretty! They have on blue frocks, and big hats with cornflowers on them; and, oh, please do try and make me look tidy and pretty too!"
Faith was standing before the glass, tying up her hair. She had been taking unusual pains with her appearance to-day, and she was rather late— which was not unusual. Joan, looking a perfect darling in her little long white frock, was sitting on the bed, playing with reels of cotton.
"Where are your shoes?" asked Faith, looking in dismay at Debby's much-darned stockings.
"I lost them—down the village. They fell off when I was running. Somebody will bring them back all right," she added, consolingly, "they've got my name inside."
It was Irene Vivian who brought them back. "Your brother said they were yours," she smiled, as she handed the shabby brown shoes to the blushing Debby.
"I am so sorry," said Debby, apologetically. "Tom should have carried them. You see, I'd lost the buttons, and they dropped off when I was running. I—I couldn't stay to go back, I was in—in rather a hurry."
She took the shoes, and was putting them on as they were. "I'm going to wear them to-day, 'cause they're comfortabler than my best ones, and the heather and brambles and things would scratch up my best ones," she added, confidentially. "I am going up on the moor to tea—we are all going. All except Joan." Has Audrey told you?
"I am glad of that, only I'd like Joan to go too. But you can't walk comfortably without any buttons on your shoes. If you could find me two, and a needle and cotton, and a thimble, I would sew them on for you. Oh, here is a work-basket. I will take what I want from here. Shall I?"
"Oh, oh!" gasped Debby, "that is Audrey's. I don't think we had better touch that—she is dreadfully particular. She gen'rally keeps it up in her room; but she brought her best things down here to-day, 'cause you were coming."
"How kind of her," said Irene. She felt somewhat embarrassed by these confidences. "And I am sure then she would not mind my using her work-basket. I won't hurt it the least little bit in the world."
She looked round for Audrey, to ask her permission, but she could not see her, and helped herself to a thimble, and needle and cotton. It never entered her head that there could be any reason why she should not do so. Mr. Carlyle had gone off to collect the baskets, Audrey had run upstairs to see if her mother was ready and able to see the guests for a little while before the start. Faith was showing Joan to Daphne. The two boys, very anxious in their first shyness to have something to do, had followed Mr. Carlyle.
When Audrey came down, Irene was putting the finishing stitches to the second shoe. Audrey looked shocked and displeased. "Oh, Debby, how dare you!" she cried, scarcely knowing, in her indignation, what she was saying.
"You should say 'how dare you' to me," laughed Irene, as she returned the thimble and needle to their places. "I asked if I might sew on Debby's buttons, and I used your basket. I hope you don't mind. I haven't done any harm, I think."
Audrey did mind, but she could hardly say so. "I never did know such children," she cried, trying to conceal her vexation. Debby's shoes were decidedly shabby, yet she could not have displayed them more thoroughly. It almost seemed as though she took a pride in their shabbiness. "They never seem able to keep a button on for two days together. I really think they pull them off on purpose."
"Oh, Audrey! I don't, you know I don't. I told you days ago that one was off, and the other one was loose—and then the loose one came off too."
Irene strolled over and looked out of the window. "What a jolly garden," she said, anxious to put an end to the discussion. "I wish we had a large plain piece of grass like that. At grandfather's the turf is all cut up with flower-beds, and one can hardly step for ornamental flower pots—and things. We three never seem able to do anything without damaging something."
Audrey's face cleared a little. "Well, we haven't too many flower beds," she laughed. "In fact, one can hardly call ours a garden. The children play there, and, of course, that spoils it. But, of course, they must have somewhere to play." She had put on her best company manner and grandmotherly speech. "Will you come up now to see mother? Then I think we ought to start. No, Debby, you must stay down, we don't want you." Debby's face fell, but Irene looked back with a smile, which made up for the hurt.
It was a great satisfaction to Audrey that her mother, and her mother's room, were both so dainty and pretty, as she ushered Irene and Daphne in. It was the first satisfaction she had felt that day, so far.
"I have been longing to see you," said Mrs. Carlyle, warmly, kissing them both, "ever since I heard you were so near. I used to know your father when he was a boy, and I am so glad that his children and mine should have met. I hope you will become real friends, dear."
"I hope so," said Irene, her face alight with pleasure. "Did you really know father? I am so glad. Abbot's Field seems so like home, for he told us so much about it, and he loved it so."
"Mrs. Carlyle," broke in Daphne, "did you guess who we were when Audrey told you who she had travelled home with? We told her where we lived; but we didn't know then who she was."
Audrey blushed painfully, and waited in dread of her mother's reply.
"I—no, dear, not then. I was rather ill when Audrey came home. I did not realise."
"I—I think we had better start now." Audrey got up from her chair, and went to the door hurriedly. She was so nervous she felt she could not bear any more. "The nicest part of the afternoon will be gone if we don't go."
Daphne sprang to her feet, but Irene rose more reluctantly. "Will you be alone while we are away?" she asked, lingering by Mrs. Carlyle's sofa. "It seems so selfish to go away and leave you. I wish I could be with you—or you with us."
Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her with shining eyes. "I would love a picnic on the moor above all things," she said. "Another summer, perhaps, if you are here, we will all go. I shall look forward to that, Irene, as eagerly as if I were a child. Perhaps Joan will be able to go too—the big baby and the little one!"
"Oh, I hope so," said Irene, her beautiful eyes glowing, "and I hope we shall be here. We want mother to take a house somewhere near, we love this part better than any—Coming, Audrey, coming!" She stooped and kissed the invalid affectionately. "Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Is the window as you like it? Do you want a book or anything handed to you?" While she spoke she was spreading the rug smooth over the invalid's feet.
"Yes, dear, please if you will pass me that book and lower the blind a little, I shall be able to read myself to sleep."
"Irene! Irene! are you coming?" a voice called up the stairs again.
"Run, dear, I must not keep you any longer. I am so comfortable now, with everything put right."
"Good-bye then for the time," said Irene, smiling back brightly as she stood at the door.
"Good-bye, little nurse. Try to enjoy yourself, dear; and thank you for all you have done for me."
But, though she was so comfortable and 'had everything she wanted,' Mrs. Carlyle did not fall asleep for a long while after the girls had left her, but lay gazing thoughtfully before her, and more than once tears shone in her eyes and fell on to her pillow.
"They are such darlings, too," she murmured at last, rousing herself with a little shake, as though trying to shake off her thoughts. "They are such dear children, it is wicked to wish them other than they are, yet sympathy is very sweet; and—and understanding makes life very, very pleasant."