Copy that one out just as it is; it is ever so much the better of the two.

You have tried to improve and improve it until you have improved most of the fun out of it. Now I must fly down to tea. I am so excited, I hardly know what I am doing."

But her excitement was nothing compared with Audrey's. She, in her joy, forgot everything--Mr. Vivian, the letter, the news he had brought, and never remembered either again until some time later, when Mr. Carlyle came in.

"I met your grandfather at the station, Irene," he said at once.

"He told me----"

Audrey leaped out of her chair. "Oh, I had _quite_ forgotten," she cried remorsefully. "I am so sorry. I had a letter----" and she darted away and up the stairs, leaving them all startled and wondering. "I don't seem able to think of anybody or anything but that play," she thought.

"I shall be glad when I have seen the last of it."

When she went down again she fancied Irene looked at her reproachfully.

"How was grandfather looking?" she was asking Mr. Carlyle, "and the others--did he say how they were?"

Audrey felt more and more ashamed. Irene had been so good to her, and this was her return.

"Yes, he said they were all perfectly well now, and they are all going to Ilfracombe for a long change, as soon as they can arrange matters."

Irene clapped her hands ecstatically. "Keith and Daphne will love that, and mother too. Ilfracombe suits her so well. Will they want me to go with them?"

Mr. Carlyle smiled ruefully. "I am afraid so. Where is the letter, Audrey. Have you taken it to your mother?"

"Yes, father, and she wants you."

Mr. Carlyle rose, picked up Baby Joan, and went upstairs with her in his arms, leaving Audrey to tell her tale, and make her apologies to Irene.

Faith came in presently from the garden, where, rather late in the day, she had been tying up the sweet peas and sunflowers Debby and Tom had planted. "Oh, dear, I don't like weather quite as hot as this; it makes one so dreadfully tired," she sighed wearily, as she stretched herself full-length upon the shabby sofa. "Has anyone seen Joan? I ought to be giving her her supper."

Irene looked at her attentively. "Let me give her her supper, and put her to bed to-night, Fay. I would love to. Do let me. She will be quite good with me now."

Faith stirred lazily and half rose. "Oh no--we shall leave everything to you soon, Irene. I can do it quite well. I am not so very tired, really; only hot and limp."

She was very pale, though, and Irene noticed for the first time how white her lips were, and how dark the marks under her eyes. She got up, and, going over to the sofa, pressed Faith back on to the cushions again.

"Do let me, Faith," she pleaded, "please. You see, I shall not be able to many times more." And Faith, anxious to give what pleasure she could, let her have her way.

Irene, satisfied, folded her work, and departed. Faith sank down contentedly, and fell into a doze. Audrey sat for a while, wondering what she should do next. "I think I will go up and work at that ma.n.u.script, as long as the daylight lasts," she decided; "the sooner it is done the better," and crept softly out of the room, so as not to disturb Faith.

But halfway up the stairs she met Irene dashing down like a wild thing.

"Oh, Audrey," she cried, "come quickly! Where is Faith? and, oh, I want Debby and Tom too. Such news! Oh, do call them. Mr. Carlyle wants you all." But the end of her sentence came in broken gasps as she tripped over the mat and disappeared into the dining-room.

A moment later three flying figures dashed up breathlessly, with Faith panting on more slowly in the rear. "What has happened?" she gasped.

"What is it all about?"

"I don't know," cried Audrey, "but it can't be anything bad." And they hurried after the others into their mother's room.

Mrs. Carlyle was sitting up on her couch looking happy and excited.

Mr. Carlyle looked pleased too, but a little grave.

"Irene, dear, you tell them, will you?" said Mrs. Carlyle, eagerly.

And Irene told, and what she told seemed to them all too wonderful to be true. Mrs. Vivian had taken a furnished house at Ilfracombe for two months, a house much larger than she needed for her own brood, and she begged Mrs. Carlyle to let her have her brood too for three or four weeks, "to fill the house up comfortably."

It was so wonderful, so unlooked-for, such an undreamed-of event in their lives, that for a second an awed silence filled the room. Then came a long-drawn "O-o-oh-h-h!" of sheer amaze and delight; and the spell was broken.

"Is it really, truly true!" gasped Debby, "or is it only a 'let's pretend'?"

"It is a really--truly true, Debby darling," cried Irene, seizing her in her arms and lifting her high enough to kiss her.

"Wants _all_ of us?" gasped Audrey, incredulously. "What,_ all five_!"

"' All--if you can spare them,'" read Mr. Carlyle, turning to the precious letter once more.

"But you can't spare them," said Faith, suddenly sitting down on a chair at her mother's side. Then, with a little gulp, and a little laugh, "You can't spare me, mummy, you know you can't. We will send off Audrey to be nursemaid to the babies, and--and you and I will have a nice quiet time at home alone!" Her lip quivered just for a moment, but her big brown eyes, full of a strained look of excitement, glanced from one to the other with half-laughing defiance, as though daring them to say her nay.

Audrey's spirits dropped from fever-heat to several degrees below zero.

For one moment the prospect had been so beautiful, so ideal. A change, a holiday, a journey, the sea, servants, comforts--no more dishwashing or cooking. Oh, it was unbearably enticing. But almost with the same she realised that none of these were for her. Faith was to go, if no one else went. A glance at Faith's face made that quite plain. Yes, Faith must go; and she, Audrey, must stay at home. And so she told her when, after all the rest of the household was asleep, she crept down in her dressing-gown to Faith's room. Fearing to knock, she had entered the room with no more warning than a gentle rattle of the handle. But her warning was lost on Faith who, hot night though it was, was lying with her head buried under the bed-clothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs.

"Faith! What is the matter? tell me. Oh, what is it? do tell me!"

At the touch of Audrey's hand, Faith had thrust her head up suddenly.

"Oh, I was afraid it was father! I mean, I was afraid he had heard me."

"What is the matter?" asked Audrey, her voice full of anxiety.

"Oh, Faith, do tell me. Perhaps I can help."

"It--it isn't about not going to Ilfracombe," declared Faith stoutly.

"Audrey, I don't want to go, I would rather not. You must go. I really want to stay at home."

"Why?"

"Because I do."

"That is no reason. You need a change and a holiday more than any of us, and you know you would love it. You must go."

"I can't."

"But why?"

"I am too tired. I don't want the f.a.g of it all."

"But you will be less tired if you do go. The change will do you heaps of good, and it will not be a f.a.g. I will pack for you."

Finding herself thus cornered, Faith's usually sweet temper gave way.

"I haven't anything to pack," she snapped impatiently, "nor anything to pack in. I can't go. I can't possibly go. I haven't any clothes.

Don't worry me so, Audrey."

Audrey showed no resentment. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. "Oh, I see.

Well, we won't bother about that now. But, Faith, I do want you to go.

I came down on purpose to ask you to. I want you to go as--as a favour to me. I will tell you why. I want to stay at home, I--I mean I can't go away just now, for I want to finish some writing very, very particularly,"

and she breathed in Faith's ear the precious secret about her 'play.'