"I do want to, mummy. I do! I do!"

"You think you do. Well, to realise that you are not so, is a step forward," and with a soft laugh Mrs. Carlyle put her arm around her little daughter, and drew her to her. "Dear, each of us has a hill to climb, and there has to be a first step; but if we do not quickly take another step forward, we are very apt to slip to the bottom again. If we want to reach the top we _must_ keep on going."

"Mother, I shall bring you your gla.s.s of milk every day, and I shall try to bring it more nicely each time. Then, perhaps, I shall remember to take the next step. Now I must run away to look for Joan."

Once again Mrs. Carlyle drew her closer. "My good little Faith," she said softly, "Joan's little second mother. What would she or I have done, darling, without you to take care of us?" And her eyes were misty with tears as she lay back on her cushions.

Faith's eyes were dim, too, as she went softly on her way. "But second mothers have to be always setting good examples, just as real mothers have," she thought. And, by way of beginning, she set about making her bedroom as neat as a new pin.

CHAPTER XIII.

The last day for sending in the 'Plays' was July 31st. That was now but a fortnight off, and Audrey, in a state of feverish nervousness, had completed her last clean copy. She had worked hard each afternoon, and conscientiously, only to be filled at the last with despair and despondence. She had read, re-read, written and re-written it, until she knew every word by heart, and all seemed stale, dull, and trivial.

Irene, coming up to her room one afternoon, had found her with flushed cheeks and swelled eyelids, and despair plainly visible in every line of her face and form.

"It is no good," she groaned. "I shall not send it. I couldn't send anything so dull and foolish. They will only laugh."

"That is what you want them to do, isn't it?" asked Irene, cheerfully.

"Not the kind of laughter I mean. Oh, Irene, it is miserably bad."

Irene shook her head. "I simply don't believe it. You have been through it so often, you can't judge. Will you let me read it? I will tell you quite honestly how it strikes me."

Audrey coloured, but she looked grateful. "If you would care to, but I am ashamed for anyone to see it. And, oh, I _am_ so disappointed, and, oh,"

throwing herself wearily on her bed, "oh, so tired of it. The mere sight of it almost makes me ill."

"Poor old girl, you are tired and over-anxious. Is this it?" pointing to a little heap of MS. on Audrey's writing-table in the window.

"Yes."

"May I read the old one, too? The first copy you finished, I mean, before you began to alter it."

Audrey opened her desk and took out another heap of paper, tumbled, scribbled over, and evidently much used.

"Now I am going to shut myself up in my room, and," with a laugh and a nod at the despairing author, "I want no-one to come near me until I show myself again."

"Very well," said Audrey, "but I shall not come near you then. I shall be much too nervous."

"Then I will come to you and stalk you down. Look here, Audrey, don't shut yourself up here all the afternoon. You have no writing to do now.

Take my advice, and go for a good long walk, and try not to think about the play, or--or anything connected with it. Keep your heart up, old girl. I am sure it is good, even if it won't be the best."

Audrey sighed heavily. She had long since given up hoping that it might be the best, or even second best, or third. To be 'Commended' was an honour she had ceased to hope for. She had written and re-written, and altered and corrected, until all the freshness and originality were gone, and the whole was becoming stiff and stilted, and she was incapable of seeing whether she was improving or spoiling it.

It was with a distinct sense of relief that she gave in to Irene's suggestion, and handed it over to her for her opinion.

And, as soon as Irene was gone, she took her second piece of advice and went out for a walk. By going quietly down the back-stairs to the back-door she escaped from the house unnoticed; then by going through the vegetable garden she got into a little lane which skirted the village, one end of it leading to the moor, the other to the high road to Abbot's Field. Her one idea was to escape meeting anyone. She felt in no mood for talk. She could not force herself to play with the children, or to chatter to the old village people, who would all be at their doors just now, anxious to see someone with whom to gossip. She meant to go up to the moor, where she could be sure of solitude. The air and the peace up there always did her good. The sight of a figure coming towards her made her turn the other way, though. She felt she could not meet anyone, and be pleasant and sociable. She was sorry, for she loved the moor better than any place. However, this other way there was the shade of the trees and the hedges, she consoled herself. And she walked on, well content through the silence and solitude of the hot summer afternoon.

Well content, at last, until suddenly she saw a well-remembered horse and rider coming along the road towards her.

Audrey was vexed. She wanted only to walk and think, and walk and think.

But, though she would have found it difficult to realise, it was best for her that the break should come. She had already walked two miles, and, oblivious of everything but her thoughts, and of every thought but one-- her play--was as full of nerves, and hopes and fears, as though she had stayed at home.

Mr. Vivian's st.u.r.dy common-sense was as good for her as a tonic.

At sight of her he reined up Peter and dismounted. "Miss Audrey," he cried, "it is the greatest treat in the world to see you. I have scarcely seen a friend to speak to for weeks. And I was tired to death of my own company. No, I will not shake hands, and we will keep the width of Peter between us, though I am really safer than nine persons out of ten, for I have lived in such an atmosphere of disinfectants I must be saturated through and through. I honestly believe I could not catch a measle, or any other disease, if I wanted to."

"I am not afraid," said Audrey, stroking Peter's soft nose. "How are you all? Are you all out of quarantine?"

"Yes."

"Oh!" Audrey's face fell, and her tone was not one of congratulation.

"You don't seem quite as pleased as we are, Miss Audrey."

Audrey laughed and blushed. "I am--I am, really," she said, looking up at him with an apologetic smile. "But I am afraid I was selfish. I was thinking of Irene. You will want her home now, of course, and--well, I do not like to think of her going. I--we shall miss her horribly."

Mr. Vivian had slipped the reins over his shoulder, and was searching his pockets. "I have a letter here for your mother and father. I was on my way to deliver it. We don't want to part you, but of course we want Irene. We have missed her sadly."

"It has been lovely having her," said Audrey softly. In her overwrought state, she felt inclined to cry at the mere thought of losing her.

Indeed, she felt so stupid, so miserable, so tongue-tied, she could not stand there any longer lest the sharp-eyed old gentleman should see the tears in her eyes. What a weak, silly baby she was!

She turned away abruptly as though to resume her walk. "Oh, you are not going yet.--I forgot, of course you were walking away from home.

I just wondered----"

She had intended to, for she was tired, and it would be tea-time before she got home, if she did not hurry. But her longing was to go in any direction but his.

"I--I am soon," she said lamely, forcing down her feelings and her tears.

"Did you want me to do anything?"

"I just wondered if you would take this note to your parents for me.

I have to go to the mill first, and be at the station by five o'clock, and I am afraid I shall hardly do it."

"Of course I will. I beg your pardon. I did not understand."

The old gentleman's kind eyes looked at her very keenly as he handed her the letter. "You don't look very well, Miss Audrey; I hope you aren't going in for measles too! Or have you been working too hard, taking care of Irene? You look tired."

Audrey smiled back at the face so full of sympathy and kindly concern.

"I don't think I am really tired," she said, speaking as brightly as she could, "and I am quite sure I am not going in for measles, and I certainly haven't been doing too much for Irene. I have walked rather far, that is all, and it is dreadfully hot, isn't it? I think I will go home now, after all. It must be nearly tea-time."

Tea was laid and waiting for her by the time she reached home. But before she noticed that, her eyes had sought Irene's face, as though she expected to read her verdict there.

Irene's face was beaming. "Splendid," she whispered, rea.s.suringly.

Audrey felt as though a great load had been lifted off her heart.

"I will just run up and take off my hat and shoes," she said, more gaily than she had spoken for a long time. Irene followed her to her room.

"I couldn't wait," she panted, as she reached the top stair. "Oh, Audrey, I do like it; it is lovely. I am sure it--will be one of the best."

She wound up with sudden caution, remembering that it would be cruel to raise her hopes too high. "But do send the first one--the untidy one.