Faith was standing before the gla.s.s, 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 b.u.t.tons, 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 b.u.t.tons 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 embarra.s.sed 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 st.i.tches 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 b.u.t.tons, 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 b.u.t.ton 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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."

CHAPTER IX.

"Debby! Tom! Are you ready? It is time to start." Dead silence.

"Audrey, ask Mary if she knows where they are, will you, please?"

Audrey walked away reluctantly. The whole party had collected just where they could look right into the kitchen directly the door was open; and one of the last things Audrey wanted, under the circ.u.mstances, was to open the door, for she knew, only too well, the state the kitchen was in.

Instead of being neat and spotless, a place of gleaming copper and silvery shining steel, of snowy wood and polished china, such as she would have loved to display, it was all a hopeless muddle and confusion, a regular 'Troy Town' of a kitchen.

Perhaps she hoped she could make Mary hear without actually opening the door; but it was a forlorn hope. Mary was generally afflicted with deep deafness if one particularly wanted her hearing to be acute. She was now.

Audrey called again and again in vain.

"Open the door," suggested Mr. Carlyle, "she is probably rattling pans and dishes and can't hear anything beyond."

"Put your head in and shout," suggested Faith, and Daphne and Keith laughed.

Audrey had to do it. She knew that if she did not Faith would--and when Faith opened a door--well, all there was to see one saw. In a gust of anger she turned the handle and opened the door as little as she could.