"I expect, dear, you would like to take off your hat and coat and have some tea. You must be tired and hungry." Mrs. Carlyle loosened her arm from round her daughter, but reluctantly. "Well," she said, looking after her as she left the room with Faith; "you have your father's features, but you have my mane, I see. Shocking, isn't it, to have six red-headed people in one house!"

"Six red-headed tempers too," laughed Faith, "no five--you haven't a temper, mummy. Come along, Audrey." She hurried along the narrow corridor and opened a door at the other end, "There--that is our room-- won't it be jolly? I am sorry it is so untidy now, but it will be lovely when we have settled in, won't it?"

Audrey glanced about her, speechless, "How--how small and--and old-fashioned the room looks," she said at last. "At granny's they are so high, and they look so light and bright. Where am I to put all my things?

You see I have rather a lot of clothes."

"Have you?" said Faith wistfully, "well it's lucky that I haven't.

I will give you another drawer in my chest of drawers. Now I must run down to baby. Mary is cooking, and there is only Debby to look after her.

Will you come down when you are ready? It will soon be tea-time, and I want you to see baby. Oh, Audrey, she is such a darling. You'll be sure to love her. Doesn't it seem odd that you have never seen her--your very own sister!"

"Yes," said Audrey, but without eagerness. "I wish though that she had been a boy. We were too many girls before."

Faith went downstairs with a shadow on her bright spirits. Why was it that nothing seemed quite right? Perhaps she had expected too much.

Somehow she had a feeling that Audrey was not pleased with anything, nor comfortable. She could give her another drawer or two and more room in the cupboard, but she could not change the long, low rooms to high, light ones, nor her baby sister into a brother.

"And I don't want to!" she cried as she met the young person in question crawling along the hall to meet her.

"Fay! Fay! Fay!" cried Joan joyfully, and chuckled with delight at sight of her.

Faith caught her up in her arms and hugged her. "Oh, Joan, you darling-- but what about your clean pinny that I had put on on purpose to make you look nice when your new big sister saw you for the first time?"

But Joan only caught Faith's curls in her two plump little hands, and drew her face down until she could rub her own soft baby face against it.

A few minutes later Audrey came out of her room, she had made herself as tidy as she could without hot water to wash with, or a brush or comb.

Her own were not unpacked, and Faith's were nowhere to be seen.

As she descended the stairs a strong smell of cooking poured up to meet her. "Sausages," she thought to herself, "what a funny time of day to have them." She was so hungry though, she could forgive the appearance of such a dish at such an hour.

In the dining-room Tom and Debby were trundling a small tin train across the table from side to side, trying to avoid collisions with forks and spoons and cups and saucers, et cetera, by moving such things away.

Faith was playing on the hearthrug with Joan. "Look, Audrey," she cried as her eldest sister entered, "this is baby! isn't she a darling!"

Audrey looked down at the sweet little upturned face, at the big, velvety, violet eyes fixed so earnestly on herself. "Oh, you are a darling," she cried impulsively. "Will you come to me, Joan dear?" But Joan was shy at first and shrank back against Faith, though her eyes still scanned Audrey's face with interest. A moment later there was a crash against the door followed by a rattle of plates and dishes, diverting everyone's attention. Audrey swung round with a cry of alarm. She was not accustomed yet to the ways of the household.

"It is only Mary bringing in the dishes and things," remarked Faith placidly, "she always b.u.mps the door with her tray." Audrey wondered what granny would say if any one so treated the doors at 'Parkview.'

She wondered too, when she saw her, what granny would think of Mary; round-faced, untidy, good-tempered Mary, with her crumpled ap.r.o.n, torn dress and untidy head. Audrey did not know then how patient, willing and hard-working Mary was. She only saw an untidy head with hair and cap falling over one ear, a red face and s.m.u.tty hands, and wondered how her father, who followed her into the room could look at her and not send her away to make herself neat, or give her notice on the spot.

Granny would not allow her to come into the room looking so untidy, and oh! what would Phipps think of her?

She did not know then that poor Mary did more hard work in one day than prim Phipps did in four; did it willingly too, and for far less reward.

"Tea's ready, miss," Mary announced loudly. "Master Tom, you'll have to pick up your toys now; and look at the litter you've made the table in!

Miss Faith, shall I hold baby while you have your tea? I'll rompsy with her a bit, and that'll tire her out and make her sleepy."

"Oh, thank you, Mary, she will love that." Faith handed her precious burthen over to the grimy, willing hands without a vestige of the shudder which ran up and down Audrey's spine at the sight of them.

"Oh! oh! sausages for tea! sausages for tea!" Debby and Tom pausing in their entrancing game realised for the first time the unusual luxury spread before them. "Sausages _and_ jam too! That's 'cause Audrey has come. Faith, may we have some too? Are we always going to have sausages for tea now? Oh, I am glad Audrey's come home. Don't you love sausages, Audrey?"

Debby looked up at her sister with eager, happy eyes.

"Yes--rather--I mean yes, I do." Audrey was glancing about her for a table-napkin. Mr. Carlyle saw and understood.

"Faith, dear. Audrey would like a table-napkin. Can you get her one?"

"Never mind," said Audrey, "it really doesn't matter." But Faith had already flown. When she came back again it was with a troubled face and a very ragged piece of damask in her hand.

"I know we have some better ones somewhere," she said, "but I can't think where they have got to. I can't find anything but this."

"Oh, don't bother," pleaded Audrey, embarra.s.sed by the trouble she was causing.

Mr. Carlyle sighed softly, but not so that Faith could hear. "I think we shall have to put you in charge of the linen-cupboard," he said, smiling down at his elder daughter, and Audrey's face brightened. She loved granny's nice neat linen cupboard, with its neat piles of towels and pillow-cases, sheets and tablecloths all in such beautiful order.

She picked up her knife and fork to begin her meal, trying not to see that the knife had not been cleaned, but when she felt the handle of her fork sticky in her clasp her patience gave out, she could not eat with dirty messy things, and she would not. With a face like a thunder-cloud she laid down both again, "I don't think I will have any, thank you," she said huskily. "I--I----" She was so thoroughly put out she could scarcely speak, for she really was very hungry and she really wanted her tea.

Her father, with a very concerned face, laid down his own knife and fork and looked at her anxiously. "Perhaps it was not a very wise choice to have made for you after a journey," he said, "would you rather have some cold meat, dear?"

"No, thank you, it is very nice, but--but----"

"You would rather have some bread and b.u.t.ter."

She would not at all prefer bread and b.u.t.ter, at that moment she felt she hated it, she was so hungry and longed for the savoury sausage and potato.

It was not the food she objected to but what she had to eat it with.

After the fuss, though, about the table-napkin she had not the courage to speak out. So she sat and ate bread and jam sulkily, and almost choked over her tea and refused to smile at anyone or at anything that was said.

In her heart she wondered how she could ever endure the hopeless muddle, the dirt and untidiness, for fifty-two long weeks. "Three hundred and sixty-five days of it!" she thought angrily, "and I haven't lived through one yet! Oh, I must write to granny and beg her to let me come back to her again. They must manage without me here, I simply cannot bear it."

Again a shadow fell on the happiness of all. Mr. Carlyle, looking at his eldest daughter's downcast face, wondered if he had done right by her; not so much in having her home now, as in ever letting her go away. Was she going to be the comfort to her mother, and the help to the younger ones that he had hoped she would, after her four years of training; or had the years simply taught her to be selfish, and to love luxury?

Faith, too, felt unusually depressed. She was accustomed to feeling tired in body, but to-night she felt tired in spirit also. Debby and Tom, instead of rejoicing that they had a big sister to make home happier, felt as though they had a stranger amongst them, who disapproved of everything.

In her heart of hearts Audrey knew it too. She felt that she was being disagreeable, that so far she had given no one cause to be glad that she had come home; and, once her first anger had subsided, the feeling added greatly to her sadness. She longed to be able to get away by herself for a while; but in that busy house she knew there was but little chance of solitude.

"I must have a room to myself, I must! I must!" she thought desperately, "if it is only an attic. Somewhere where I can put my books and desk."

Suddenly she remembered that the house had attics, some of which were not used--at least, two were unused when she lived at home. Her heart gave a great leap of excitement. If one were still empty, could not she have it?

She felt she could put up with everything else, if she might but have one place of her very own.

She longed to ask about it at once, and set her mind at rest, but second thoughts showed her that it would be too selfish, too ungracious to be inquiring about a room for herself on the very first evening of her home-coming, especially after the nursery--an extra large room--had been given up to them that they might be happy and comfortable.

She would wait a day or two, she decided, and then make the suggestion to Faith. Faith would agree, she was sure, if she thought it would give pleasure. She was always so easy-going and good-tempered; so ready to fall in with any plan for making others happy.

Audrey's spirits brightened, and the brightness showed in her face.

Her father, watching her anxiously, saw that the cloud had lifted, and thought that perhaps after all it might only have come from over-tiredness, and a very natural sorrow at leaving her grandmother and her home of four years.

"I have taken your boxes upstairs," he said, laying his hand caressingly on her shoulder, "you will be able to unpack after tea if you like."

Audrey looked up at him with the brightest look he had yet seen on her face.

"Oh, thank you, father, so much, I will go up and unpack at once, if I may, there are presents in my big box for everyone."