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 cla.s.s, but neither pupils nor teacher benefited by the lessons. To the children she was cold and unsympathetic. She took no interest in them or their doings; and they in their turn did not like her. And, more than that, they judged other teachers by her.

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

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

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

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

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

--are you faint? Have you had anything since we have been gone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Doesn't that look tempting, mother?"

"Indeed it does! and what a luxury to have the table-napkin remembered.

Is that Audrey's doing?"

"Yes--and oh, Audrey, I've been longing all this time to tell you.

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

Audrey groaned. "What do you mean?" she asked irritably. "Who was me?

and who was looking for what? and how should I know who anyone was if you don't explain? Can't you tell all about it so that anyone can understand you?"

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

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

Audrey grew red and uncomfortable, but made no reply.

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

"And oh, they are so nice, mother dear," chimed in Faith excitedly.

"You will love them. They are coming here to see you."

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

Audrey nodded. She was looking embarra.s.sed, 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.