The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAnxious Audrey

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAnxious AudreyThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Anxious AudreyAuthor: Mabel Quiller-CouchIllustrator: Helen JacobsRelease date: February 3, 2010 [eBook #31173]Most recently updated: January 6, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Lionel Sear*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANXIOUS AUDREY ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Anxious AudreyAuthor: Mabel Quiller-CouchIllustrator: Helen JacobsRelease date: February 3, 2010 [eBook #31173]Most recently updated: January 6, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Lionel Sear

Title: Anxious Audrey

Author: Mabel Quiller-CouchIllustrator: Helen Jacobs

Author: Mabel Quiller-Couch

Illustrator: Helen Jacobs

Release date: February 3, 2010 [eBook #31173]Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Lionel Sear

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANXIOUS AUDREY ***

Fig 2.

I.II.III.IV.V.VI.VII.VIII.IX.X.XI.XII.XIII.XIV.XV.XVI.

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IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

"Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home,The field-mouse has gone to her nest;The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes,And the birds and the bees are at rest."

Mr. Carlyle, standing outside the nursery door, stayed a moment until the sweet low voice had reached the end of the verse, then, turning the handle very gently, entered the room on tiptoe.

Faith looked up with a smile, but with a warning finger held out, while in a lower and more crooning voice she began the next verse:

"Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home,The glow-worm is lighting her lamp——"

"Oh, dear!" as two round blue eyes looked up at her, full of sleepy wickedness, "She is as wide awake when I began! Baby, you are not a nice little girl and I shan't be able to go on loving you if you don't go to sleep soon."

The blue eyes, wandering from Faith's reproving face, fell on her father, and with a croon of delight a pair of plump dimpled arms was held out pleadingly. "Dad! Dad!" cooed the baby voice coaxingly, and the arms were not held out in vain.

Faith handed over her heavy, lovable burden with a mingled sigh of relief and hopelessness. "This is all wrong, you know, father," with a weary little laugh, "a well brought up baby should be sound asleep by this time—but how is one to make her sleep if she absolutely refuses to?"

Mr. Carlyle looked down at his little daughter snuggling so happily in his arms. "I don't know, dear," he said helplessly. "I suppose we aren't very good nurses. Perhaps we are not stern enough. I am sorry I came in just then, she might have gone off if I hadn't, but I wanted to speak to you particularly; there is a great deal I want to discuss. How is your mother? I haven't been in to see her. I saw that her room was dark, so I thought she was probably asleep."

"I expect she is. She seemed very sleepy when I gave her her cornflour at seven. I haven't been able to go to her since, baby has been so restless."

"Isn't she well?"

"Oh, yes, she is well, but while I was down making the cornflour I had to leave her with Tom and Debby, and they got playing, of course, and excited her so much she can't go to sleep."

"Couldn't Mary have made the cornflour or have looked after baby for the time?"

"No, she was ironing, and she doesn't know yet just how mother likes it."

"Oh! but can't you come down, dear, until this minx is slumbering?"

Faith looked at the grate where a few cinders only lay grey and lifeless at the bottom; then she looked at her father with a mischievous twinkle in her pretty brown eyes. "I can't unless we take baby too," she said. "Of course it is very wrong and a real nurse would faint at such behaviour, but, shall we, daddy? It is cold up here, and lonely—and, oh! I am so hungry and quite hoarse with singing lullabies."

"Poor child! Come downstairs and we will not think about what real nurses would say. This little person is really so sleepy she will hardly realise what has happened."

Faith's eyes sparkled. "We mustn't let Tom and Debby know, or they will be down too. If we go very softly perhaps they won't hear, they were nearly asleep when I looked in at them just now. I hope baby won't give a yell on the stairs."

"I will try to prevent her. Now then, come along."

Baby Joan, as though she understood all about it, and what was expected of her, smiled up at them knowingly, but she did not make a sound, not even when they paused at her mother's bedroom door and looked in.

The firelight shining on the invalid's face showed that she was sleeping peacefully, so they tiptoed away again and reached the hall without having disturbed anyone. In the dining-room the lamp was lighted, but so badly that it smelt horribly; the fire was out and the room was cold and cheerless.

"Oh dear," sighed Faith, "no coal here, either," and dashed away to the kitchen in search of some. "Mary doesn't seem able to remember that fires go out if there is nothing to put on them," she laughed, as she struggled back panting under the weight of a scuttle of coal and an armful of logs. "But we shall be all right soon," she added as she knelt before the grate and began building up a fire. "I do love wood and a pair of bellows, don't you, daddy!" blowing away hard at hot embers. But Mr. Carlyle did not answer her. Instead he asked with rather an anxious note in his voice, "Does Mary find she has too much to do?"

Faith sat back on her heels and eyed the kindling sticks with a well pleased air. "No-o, I don't think so, daddy. There might be too much—if she did it," with a little laugh, "but she says she likes being where there are no other servants, and plenty of life. In her last place there were three or four servants and only an old lady to look after, and Mary says the quietness was awful. Nothing ever happened but the quarrels of the servants amongst themselves."

"I suppose they were so occupied with their quarrels that Mary had not time to learn how to do things—nicely?" Mr. Carlyle's eyes glanced sadly about the untidy room and then at the ill-laid supper table.

Faith looked up at him in mild surprise; it had never occurred to her that there was anything lacking in the care of the house. Her glance followed his and rested on the supper table too.

"Oh, daddy, I believe you have had nothing since dinner. You must be frightfully hungry, I know you must, and the dinner was so badly cooked— oh, poor daddy! Why didn't you come home to tea?"

"I had barely finished my round of calls in time to keep an appointment Dr. Gray had made with me. He wanted," he added more slowly, his face growing grave and troubled, "to talk to me about your mother."

Faith looked up quickly at him, her large eyes full of anxiety, her heart throbbing heavily. Then there was more trouble in store, more anxiety! She had felt it for days in her inmost heart, but had not had the courage to put her fears into words. "Is mother—worse?" her voice faltered and broke.

Mr. Carlyle, gazing, absorbed and troubled, into the fire, did not see her blanched cheeks and the dread that filled her eyes. He had no suspicion of the awful fear which had haunted her every waking moment, and even her dreams, or he would not have kept her in suspense while his thoughts ran on to plans for the future.

"No, dear," he said at last, "no dear, she is not worse, but the doctor says it will be a long time before she is well again—well enough to walk about and take up her old life. For a year, poor dear, she must lie on a sofa, and live the life of an invalid. If she does, he says, she will become her old strong self again in a year or two, but if she——"

"Oh, but she will, of course she will, that will be easy enough." In the intensity of her relief, Faith spoke so gaily that her father looked up at her in surprise, her tone and words sounded almost heartless.

"Easy! It will be a long and trying ordeal for her. Faith—just think of it, a whole year in one room! You don't realise."

"Oh yes I do, daddy, but we will manage beautifully. I will look after the house and the children, and—and see that mother isn't worried at all, and she can read and write, and—and oh, father, father, I am so glad—I don't know what to do!" and without any warning Faith broke down and began to sob.

"Glad!" For a moment Mr. Carlyle looked at his little daughter as though he feared she must be mad instead of glad. She spoke as though his news had come as a relief. Relief from what? Then quite suddenly the truth broke upon him.

"Oh, you poor little woman! What have you been thinking? What have you been fearing, Faith dear—tell me. Did you think——?"

Faith nodded. "Yes—yes—I thought," but she could not put her dread into words.

"You feared we might be going to lose her altogether. Oh, you poor child. My poor little girl. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't, daddy."

Mr. Carlyle drew her to him. "No wonder my news came to you as a relief," he said softly, "instead of as the shock I feared. Why, Faith, how you are trembling. You look ready to faint too. Look here, I believe you are tired and famished. Come and have some supper. What have we got? Something tempting?"

With either arm encircling a daughter, the vicar turned to survey the supper table, but at sight of it his face fell a little. Neither the food, nor the way in which it was placed before them would have tempted any but the most healthy, even ravenous appetite. Mary, the only maid they could afford to keep, was more willing than able. The china and silver had certainly been washed, but they were smeared and unpolished, the cloth was wrinkled and all askew, the food was dumped down anyhow.

Fortunately for her own comfort, but unfortunately for the good of the house, Faith was not troubled by appearances. Her eyes did not notice details, the details which mean so much, for her home had always been in more or less of a muddle. There were so many of them, Audrey, Faith, Tom, Deborah and baby Joan. Five of them ransacking and romping all over the house, until granny had come and taken Audrey away to live with her.

They had always been in a muddle, but they had always been happy, and they loved their home so dearly that, whatever it was like, it was right in their eyes—excepting, perhaps, in Audrey's. And even if their clothes were shabby—well, shabby clothes were much less of a worry than smart ones; and if their food was plain, and not very daintily served, there was always enough, and there was plenty of fun and laughter as sauce for it.

Mr. Carlyle, who had grown up in a well-ordered home where everything was as neat and well-cared-for as things could be, did realise that there was much that was lacking in his own home; but whatever he may have suffered from the disorder, he never complained. His mother had had means, three good servants, and only one child to make the home untidy; whereas his young wife, who had been brought up in an Orphan School, had never known real home life until her marriage, had only small means, several young babies, and only one ignorant servant to help her.

Audrey and Faith, as they grew out of babyhood, helped to dust the rooms, run errands, and look after the younger children, but they had only the vaguest notions as to how homes should be kept, or meals served, or the hundred and one other little things which make all the difference between a well-kept house and an ill-kept one, and they were quite content with things as they were.

At least Faith was. Audrey often had misgivings that all was not as it should be, and yearned for something more orderly, dainty, and neat; for prettier clothes and prettier manners. And then Granny Carlyle had come on a visit, and had offered to take one of her many grandchildren to live with her—for a time, at any rate. And, to the joy of Audrey, and the relief of the others, she was chosen and they were not; and, with all her few possessions packed in her mother's old portmanteau, she had gone off to enjoy all the things that she considered best worth having—a large comfortable home in a town, new clothes, school, tempting food, daintily cooked meals, and peace and quiet in which she could read and write undisturbed. For though Audrey resembled her father's mother in many ways, she had also inherited her mother's taste for writing and reading. That was four years ago, when Audrey was eleven and Faith ten, and Deborah and Tom five and four respectively. Baby Joan, aged eighteen months, Audrey had not yet seen.

Thoughts of his eldest daughter were uppermost in Mr. Carlyle's mind as he glanced from the unappetising remains of a joint lying on a dish on which it had already appeared twice, to the scrap of dry cheese and the unpolished knife lying beside it.

"I—I am afraid that is all there is, father. Won't it do?" Faith looked at him with troubled eyes. "Shall I tell Mary to cook you some eggs?"

"No, no. What is here will do very well for me, but you—wouldn't you prefer eggs—or——"

"Oh no, thank you, I am so hungry I can eat anything," said Faith cheerfully. "Father, Joan is asleep, can't we tuck her up snugly on the sofa while we are having our supper? She would be certain to wake up if I took her upstairs to her cot."

"Of course she would. If you will make her a nice little nest on the sofa I will pop her into it so gently she will not know she has been moved. There now, wasn't that clever!"

Faith again held up a warning finger, but Joan only stretched her limbs a little in her new nest, and forthwith dropped asleep again.

With a smile of triumph at each other the two nurses turned away to the supper-table, and Mr. Carlyle said grace, and with her deep relief at the news about her mother still glowing in her heart, Faith joined in with a deeper sense of real gratitude than she had known before.

"Daddy," she said presently, "you said you wanted to talk to me. Was it about mother?"

"Yes, dear, and—and other things too. I have been thinking matters over since I left the doctor, and I have come to the conclusion that I must send and have Audrey home."

"Audrey home! Oh, how jolly!" Faith's eyes lighted with pleasure. "That will be lovely. But," with sudden misgiving, "why must she come home, daddy?"

"Well, for one thing, your mother will need companionship—more than you can give her with the children taking up so much of your time. And, for another, it will be a relief to your mother to know that Audrey is here looking after things. We don't want a stranger, and, indeed, I can't afford to have anyone extra in just now. We have had so much illness and such heavy expenses. After four years with your grandmother, Audrey should be quite capable. She always had a sensible head on her shoulders and for certain granny has given her a good training."

"Ye-es," said Faith musingly, "I—I wonder how she will like coming away. I believe she will not like it at all." But Faith kept that last thought to herself.

Old Mrs. Carlyle, or 'Granny Carlyle' it would be politer, perhaps, to call her, lived at Farbridge, which was a whole sixty miles from the little village where her only son was vicar.

Granny Carlyle had been born in Farbridge, married, and spent all her life there, and hoped, so she often declared, to remain there to the end of her days. And there seemed no reason why she should not attain her wish.

Farbridge was a large country-town, with wide streets, good shops, and a park. To Audrey Carlyle, when first she went there, it appeared a splendid place; she felt sure none of the big cities of the world could outdo it, even if they equalled it. The park, with its close-cut grass, its trees and flower-beds, asphalt paths, and green-painted seats, was to her one of the beauty spots of England.

"Oh, it does look lovely," she sighed happily, as she gazed at it. "After the untidy old moor at home, it looks beautiful, granny."

"It is certainly different," agreed granny, with a twinkle in her eyes. Nevertheless she was well pleased. "I am bound to say I am no lover of the depths of the country. When I walk I like to walk in comfort, and to feel that there is no risk of my twisting my ankle in a rabbit-hole, or by tumbling over a tussock." She was glad that Audrey shared her taste, but she was not quite sure that the taste was a good one.

Granny Carlyle's house, 'Parkview,' solid, double-fronted, handsome, stood on the opposite side of the roadway, facing the park. As Audrey sat at meals in the dining-room, she looked across at the prim patches of green grass, intersected by black paths, the whole outlined by gay, trim flower-beds. Two of the patches of green had large trees in the middle, with wooden seats encircling their trunks; on several of the other patches were green seats with backs to them; the backs were all towards 'Parkview,' so that those who rested on them might be able to enjoy the view, for, though the railway-station stood on the opposite side of the road which ran along the lower side of the park, the tree-clad hills rose high beyond that again, and showed over the low roof of the little station, and if the hills happened to be covered with mist, why, there was the park itself to look at.

On that March morning when, just as Audrey and her granny sat down to breakfast, Mr. Carlyle's letter came, the park was quite gay with people, even though it was early, for, after a long spell of wet weather, the sun was shining quite warmly, and everyone was glad to be out of doors again.

Audrey thought it all looked more beautiful than ever that morning. If she could have done just as she liked, she would have gone out there herself, taking a book with her to read. But she knew that her grandmother would not allow that, so she did not let herself dwell on it.

"Isn't it lovely!" she remarked again enthusiastically. She had said exactly the same thing three times already without receiving any reply, but this time she noticed it, and, withdrawing her eyes from the fascinating scene without, looked instead at her granny for an explanation. Apparently there was no reason why Mrs. Carlyle should not have answered. She was only turning over the lumps of sugar in the sugar-basin, trying to find a small one, yet Audrey felt certain that there was something unusual in the air, that something out of the common had happened, and something not very pleasant either. Granny looked grave and troubled, and at the same time annoyed. However, there was nothing for Audrey to do but to go on with her breakfast, for she knew that her grandmother did not like to be questioned, and, after all, it might only be that the laundress had torn a sheet, or that the boot-boy had been rude to the cook. Granny was always greatly upset if people did not do their duty.

It was not until they had nearly finished breakfast that Audrey knew what was really the matter.

"I have had a letter this morning from your father, Audrey."

"Oh," said Audrey, absently, "have you, granny?" She was not deeply interested, and at that moment one of her schoolfellows went by with a new hat on, a light blue one, with a white 'bottle-brush' bobbing about on it, and she found that much more absorbing. "How is mother?" she asked, when the 'bottle-brush' had bobbed out of sight.

"Don't be staring out of window, child, while I am talking to you. I want your undivided attention."

Audrey coloured, and looked not too well pleased, but she only said, "I did not know you wanted me."

"Well, I do. I have some important news for you."

"Yes, granny," with increased interest, for this sounded very thrilling.

"Your father wants you at home."

Mrs. Carlyle, having brooded over the news for more than an hour, did not realise how startling it might be to her grand-daughter to have it blurted out in this abrupt fashion. Audrey's colour faded, leaving her quite white. "Is mother worse?" she gasped. "Granny, please tell me quickly."

Mrs. Carlyle realised the mistake she had made, and roused herself. "Oh, no, dear. Your mother is better—a little, I mean, and she is stronger, but her doctor says she must lead an invalid's life, lie down, and not walk about, or exert herself, for a whole year, and your father says they need you at home. They need your help, and your mother will be glad of your companionship."

The relief from her first dreadful fear was so great that Audrey's spirits rose high. Change is always exciting too, and to feel that one is needed is very pleasant; it makes one feel grown-up and important.

"When am I to go, granny? Soon, I suppose? Am I to keep house?" Audrey's face was very bright as she turned it to her grandmother. "Oh! but I shall have to leave school, shan't I, granny?" Her face fell at that thought, and her granny said to herself, with a little pang of pain, "She is more sorry to leave school than she is to leave me."

"Of course you will have to leave your school," she said tartly. "You could hardly come sixty miles in the morning, and home again at night. You might as well live here for all the company you would be to your mother. Think before you speak, Audrey; it would save you from saying many foolish things."

"Then shan't I go to school?"

"I don't know what arrangements your father will make; he doesn't go into every detail in this letter. Perhaps he will get a governess for you all; perhaps you will have to teach the younger ones."

"Oh!" Audrey did not care for that prospect. She was not fond of children, they made a house untidy and noisy, and required so much attention. All the same, though, it was very nice to be going home as mistress of the house, and companion to her mother. Perhaps her mother would help her with her story-writing. It would be grand if she could write stories and sell them, and earn enough money to buy her own clothes. Granny Carlyle did not approve of her writing, or reading either. Indeed, there was scarcely a book in the house.

Audrey recovered her spirits as she remembered the books and papers at home; they seemed to overflow and spread all over the house.

"I shall have my own bookcase, and keep my own books in it, away from the children," she thought to herself. "I hope I have a bedroom to myself. Oh, I must!" But the little doubt she could not get rid of sobered her again. She thought of her pretty bedroom upstairs, how lovely the comfort and peace of it had seemed to her after the bare ugly room at home, which she had shared with Faith.

"Granny, do you think I shall have a room to myself at home?" she asked anxiously. "I shall hate sharing one with Faith!"

"I daresay Faith will not relish sharing one with you," remarked granny, severely, "if she has to."

"But she is so untidy, and after having had such a nice one all to myself, I shall miss it dreadfully."

"I wonder if you will miss me," exclaimed Granny sharply, and for the first time Audrey thought of her grandmother, and her feelings.

"Why, of course I shall, granny, and everything here. I expect I shall often wish I was back again." But it was not until the last day came, and she sat at breakfast for the last time in the handsome, comfortable dining-room, that she fully realised the pain of parting.

She was looking across to the sun-bathed park, at the children already at play there, and the 'grownups' sitting on the seats gazing at the view, or reading their papers, when the thought came to her that to-morrow, and the next day, and all the days that followed, they would be there, but she would not see them. She would be miles away from that dear peaceful spot, with only a rough country road to look out on, and the desolate-looking moor in the distance. And with the same the shrill whistle of a departing train cut the air, and the melancholy of it, and of the day, and of all that was to happen, poured over Audrey, until the pain seemed almost more than she could bear.

"Oh, granny, I don't want to go away," she cried. "I don't want to go. I can't bear leaving you, and—and everything. I want to stay with you always."

Oddly enough, at the sight of Audrey's sorrow, some of the sadness which had weighed on her granny's heart for days was lifted from it, and, though it was their last day, she felt happier. "Then the child does care, she does feel leaving me, she has some deep affections! I knew she had," thought the lonely old grandmother with a sense of triumph over the doubts which had troubled her. She put out her hand and patted Audrey's. "I am so—" she almost, in her relief, said "I am so glad!" "I would like you to stay, dear, but I feel it is your duty to go, and mine to spare you."

"May I come back, granny, when the year is up?" pleaded Audrey, keeping back her tears by remembering that her eyes would be red for her journey. "It would be lovely to think that this day twelve-months I shall be seeing it all again."

"If your father and mother can spare you, and you still wish to come, I shall be very glad to have you, and your room will be waiting for you."

That was comforting, but the thought of leaving that pretty, beloved room for a whole year set the tears flowing again. "Oh, I mustn't cry, I mustn't," she said to herself fiercely. "Everybody at the station will see, and everyone in the train, too." But, as her eyes wandered from one to another of the familiar things, the pretty cups and saucers, the silver coffeepot, the funny old tall cosy that granny used, and all the rest of them, the sense of loss and parting again became too much for her, and this time the tears flowed without thought of appearances.

"I think I love things more than people," she said to herself, as she stood in her bedroom putting on her hat and coat; and she stooped and kissed the two old foreign shells on the mantelpiece with a sudden feeling of sympathy. They must have travelled so far from their home, and would never, never go back. She leaned out of the window for the last time, and took a long look at the well-filled garden, and at the flat country beyond, and the river shining in the sunlight.

The sight of the river and the hills brought her some comfort. They had been there so long, and would be there unchanged whenever she came back. "And I am coming! I am coming! Iwillcome!" she cried passionately.

A knock sounded at her door. "Mistress wants to know if you are ready, miss," said Phipps, granny's maid, who had been with her for five-and-twenty years. "The sandwiches and milk are ready for you in the dining-room, Miss Audrey. The train leaves in half an hour."

"I will be down in a minute," said Audrey, in a choked voice. She hoped desperately that Phipps would go away and leave her alone to say her last good-bye to her room. But Phipps showed no such intention.

"I'll fasten up the bag, and bring it down, miss," and she laid hands on the straps and began to secure them in a manner which gave Audrey no hope. "I'm sorry to be doing up luggage for you to go away altogether, Miss Audrey. We shall all miss you," she said kindly. "The house will seem dreadfully dull and empty. I think you had better come down and have something to eat, or the mistress will be worrying. She likes to be at the station in good time."

Audrey hurried out of her room for the last time, without a backward glance, for her heart was too full to talk.

Once out in the sunshine, though, and walking across the park with her grandmother, some of her unhappiness lightened. It was all so familiar, so exactly as it always was, so calm and unchanged, it seemed impossible that she could be going away from it all for more than a very little while. There were several things, too, that could not fail to cheer her. In her rug-strap were two new umbrellas, one for herself and one for Faith. Her own had a white handle, and Faith's a green one. In her trunk was a new coat for Faith, and a present for each and all from granny, while in the new dark-blue hand-bag that she carried was a dark-blue purse, and in the purse were a half-crown for Faith, and a new shilling each for Debby and Tom.

"To do what they like with," said granny, as she popped in the coins, "but granny hopes that they will like to put them in their money-boxes."

On the platform, when they got there, they found Audrey's neat green trunk and portmanteau, with the rug-strap lying on top, and a porter mounting guard over them. Audrey was very proud of her luggage when she travelled, it looked so neat and nice, all green alike, and all with her initials, 'A. M. C.', in white. Granny had bought it all for her when they went for their first annual visit to Torquay. Her old boxes, which she had taken with her from home, had been sent to a Jumble Sale.

They were, after all, so early for the train that the last few moments were rather painfully long and trying for them both. Granny bespoke a corner seat, and ordered a foot-Warmer, and they had walked the whole length of the platform until granny, at last, was weary, and still the train had not come. At last Mrs. Carlyle, in her anxiety to fill up the time, even went to the bookstall and bought some magazines for Audrey to take with her. She did not approve of magazines as a rule. Audrey did, though, and was overjoyed at having them; but while she was trying to get a peep at the contents there came the sound of a shrill whistle, then a rattle and a roar, and the train thundered down on the little station, and drew up.

After that it was all soon ended. A good-bye, a kiss, a promise to write, and a "be sure and let me know how your mother goes on. I shall count on you to send me bulletins frequently, your father is so busy. Good-bye, dear, good-bye—keep away from the door," and the engine, puffing a little louder, and a little louder, moved on its way again. Neither Mrs. Carlyle nor Audrey were sorry when the strain was over. It had to be; the pain lay in that; a few minutes more or less of each other's company was but little pleasure when the life they had enjoyed together was ended.

For a while after the engine steamed out, and the last glimpse of the station was gone from Audrey's sight, she felt utterly miserable, and the tears would have their way. She loved her grandmother very much, and she loved living with her, and, for the moment, at any rate, she was not charmed with the thought of life at home, the noisy children, the plain food, the shabby clothes, and even shabbier house. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and one actually dropped on the new blue bag. "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Audrey, vexedly, "I expect there will always be a mark!"

The engine began to slow down before stopping at the next station.

"Oh, dear," cried Audrey again, "I expect I look an object!" She jumped up and tried to see herself in the strip of looking-glass conveniently placed along the back of the opposite seat. "What a bother it is that one can't cry without getting to look so——" She subsided on to her seat hastily, leaving her thought unfinished, and pulled her hat down over her eyes, turned her back on the platform end of her carriage and gazed fixedly out of the opposite window, for a whole party of people had caught sight of her nice empty carriage, and were making for it.

"There are heaps of room here, mother, and such a nice carriage too!" said a boy's voice eagerly.

Audrey could not help looking round, but she pretended it was to pick up one of her magazines, and, being still afraid that her eyes and nose were red, she continued to pretend to be absorbed in the contents. She was so vexed with the newcomers for invading her carriage that she would not have looked at them—so she told herself—even if her eyes had not been red; but, if she refused to look, she could not refuse to hear, and she soon knew that there were two girls of the party, as well as the boy and his mother; and that their voices were pretty and refined. They were all so happy and jolly, too, that, in spite of her vexation, Audrey could not help growing interested and amused, and, finally, even rather glad of their company. It had certainly been rather melancholy, travelling with nothing but one's sad thoughts for company.

She felt, too, rather than saw, that they in their turn were interested in her, and were inclined to be friendly, and once again she experienced a thrill of satisfaction that she was so well dressed, and that all her belongings were so good and so dainty.

Before very long she grew tired of her self-imposed task of reading. It seemed so silly to be continually holding open the pages and casting her eyes over and over them without taking in a word. It gave one a crick in the neck too, keeping it bent so long, and, after all, the people in the carriage were so much more interesting than the people in the stories. If she could hold her head out of the window a little while and blow away the last signs of weeping, she would be able, she thought, to look about her. She threw aside her magazine, took off her hat, and, lowering her window, thrust her head out. The sun turned her red hair to a golden radiance about her; the wind, catching the heavy locks, blew them out like fluttering red-gold pennons. All the Carlyles had red hair of varying shades and natures. Audrey's was long and heavy, with a pretty wave in it. Faith's was shorter, darker, and curly. Tom's curled tightly over his head, a fiery mat of curls. Deborah's, finest and silkiest of all, hung in soft auburn waves to her waist. Baby Joan's fluffy curls were the colour of newly-spun silk.

Audrey was not thinking of her hair, but of her tear-disfigured face, until, in half turning round from the window, she caught sight of herself in the strip of mirror, and of two large smuts ornamenting her brow and her nose! After that she thought of them, and of how ridiculous she must look, and she glanced quickly with shamed eyes at her companions.

They were looking at her, but there was not the ghost of a laugh on either of their faces; indeed, on one there was gentle concern.

"That cinder is so close to your eye; may I flick it off for you?" asked the taller of the two girls, springing to her feet. "If you had tried to do it yourself you might have sent it into your eye," she explained, when she had done, "and then sometimes they take hours to get out again."

"Thank you very much," said Audrey, gratefully, then suddenly grew so shy that she subsided into her corner without another word. She made a big effort, though, to recover; it seemed so ungracious, so rude, to receive a kindness in sogauchea fashion. She took up some of her magazines. "Would you—would you like to look at these?" she asked, holding them out towards the elder girl, and at the same time colouring with embarrassment and with pleasure.

"Oh, thank you!" the three spoke with one voice. "We would love to, but— have you done with them all for the time?" asked Irene, the elder girl. "Wouldn't you like one for yourself? Daphne and I could look at one together."

Audrey shook her head. "No, thank you. I have looked through them, and I have a book here if I want to read."

"Perhaps you would take some lunch with us instead?" suggested the mother, looking up from her paper with a smile. "Keith, before you begin to devourThe Boys' Own, lift up the lunch-basket for me, and I will unpack it. We don't stop again for some time, so we can feel sure of not being disturbed."

Audrey was really not hungry, but more for the pleasure of joining the happy party than because she wanted anything, she accepted the kind offer, and was always afterwards thankful that she did, for it was the jolliest, pleasantest meal she had ever had in her life. Almost before it was begun all stiffness and shyness had vanished, and if Audrey had ever resented her travelling companions coming, she had quite forgotten it.

"I shall be sorry when the journey is over," she said with a sigh, as she lay back weary with laughter. "I never had such a jolly one!"

"Have you far to go?"

"Not so very, very much farther," she said, half ruefully. "I am going to Moor End, but I have to get out at Kingfield, and change."

"Oh, how funny! We get out at Kingfield too, but we are going on to Abbot's Field. That is the same line as yours, isn't it?"

"Yes, Abbot's Field is a station further on."

"What an extraordinary thing! Was ever anything so strange!" Daphne, the younger girl, was overcome with excitement at the coincidence. "I wonder if we shall see you sometimes! We might each walk half-way and meet. Wouldn't it be fun! Are you going to stay long?"

"Oh, yes, for a year, most likely. It is my home."

"Oh!" They all looked puzzled. Most people lived at home always; they did not come on a twelve-months' visit, or speak in quite that tone about their home-coming. But Audrey offered no explanations, and they were too polite to ask for any.

"Oh," said Daphne again. "Well, I don't suppose we shall be at Abbot's Field as long as that. We are going to stay with grandpapa, Mr. Vivian. He lives at 'The Orchard.' Do you know him?"

Audrey shook her head. "I—I don't remember the people round about Moor End—at least, not very well. I have been living with my granny for four years!"

All the laughter and joy had died out of her heart, and from her face. She was visibly embarrassed. She thought of her home, the shabbiness and untidiness of it as it used to be, and she did not expect it to be much better now, even though Faith was four years older, and she felt a shamed shrinking from letting these strangers see it. She had spoken the truth when she said she did not know Mr. Vivian, but she did remember that 'The Orchard' was a large place, and the house one of the finest in the neighbourhood.

She hoped, she hoped, oh, so fervently, that they would never come over to Moor End to look her up; that they would not ask her her name, or where she lived. If they knew her father was the vicar, they would be coming over to hear him preach, and then she would not be able to avoid introducing them, and then they would see and know all!

A shade of embarrassment hung over the rest of the journey. Audrey was uncomfortable. She was ashamed and nervous, and troubled at her own lack of frankness. She was also, fortunately, ashamed of being ashamed, but she had yet to learn how to rise above herself; to know what are the things she should feel shame for.

It was almost a relief to her when at last the train drew up at Kingfield, and they all had to change carriages; for no one could help feeling that little shade of embarrassment. And she was even more glad when the porter, who looked after her luggage for her, put her into a carriage apart from the Vivians, for now she felt she could escape the necessity of introducing to them whoever might be at the station to meet her at Moor End. Indeed, it was just possible that they might not see if anyone met her.

Yet, when the feeling of relief entered her heart, all other joy went out of it, for she did love her father, she did love them all, and it hurt her to feel ashamed. She liked her new friends too, so much, and wanted them to like her. Tears rose in her eyes as the truth came home to her that she was being false to those who loved her, and to those who had been so kind to her—and all for what?

She did not answer the question, but stood up and stared out of the window, that those within the carriage might not see her face. And so Mr. Carlyle, Deborah and Tom saw her as the train drew up, and her father's heart rejoiced at her—as he thought—anxiety to catch the first glimpse of them after their long separation.

"Has it been a very long and dreary journey, dear?" he asked, as he put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her. "Did you have company, or have you had to come all the way alone?"

"I had very nice company, part of the way," she answered, and blushed hotly, as, glancing out under the brim of her hat, she caught sight of Keith Vivian and Irene hanging out of their window looking at her. "Perhaps I had better get a porter and see about my luggage," she added hastily. It was very tiresome that they should have to wait on the platform until the train went out, before they were allowed to cross the line by the footway. But it always was so on the down platform of the little Moor End station.

To Tom and Debby one of their greatest treats was to stand and see the engine puff in and puff out on its way again. Audrey grew quite cross with the eager and shabby little pair who would stand so prominently forward, and stare so hard. With a hoot and a puff and a snort the engine moved slowly on, and the Vivians' carriage drew nearer. Daphne was at the window now, as well as Irene and Keith, their hands waving wildly in farewell greeting.

"Good-bye! Good-bye!" they called out, as cheerfully as though they had not noticed the cloud which had fallen on the end of their happy journey. "Perhaps we shall see you——" the rattle drowned the end of their greeting, and saved Audrey the necessity of replying.

"Oh! oh! Audrey, you pushed right in front of me. I couldn't see a thing, and your elbow bumped me in the eye!"

Audrey stepped back quickly; she blushed and looked embarrassed. She had not meant to bump her little sister in the eye, but she had meant to get in front of her and hide from view her shabby frock and patched boots. She had done it deliberately.

"I am very sorry, Debby, if I hurt you," she said stiffly, "but you do make a fuss about a trifle!"

"Debby doesn't," contradicted Tom, fierce in his favourite sister's defence, "Debby has more pluck than—than——"

"Tom, boy, come here," interposed Mr. Carlyle quietly. "You and Debby can carry this rug-strap between you, can't you?"

"Were those your travelling-companions?" he asked interestedly turning to Audrey as the little pair, their indignation forgotten, trotted homewards proudly with their burden.

"Yes," answered Audrey briefly. She said no more, she felt she could not, but she knew that the shadow which had fallen on her own pleasure, had fallen also on others.

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