, darling, the cloth does matter. Everything matters in some way.
Someone will have to wash, and starch, and iron it--all extra work--and
someone will have to pay for the soap, and the starch, and the fire for
heating the water, and the irons. Don't you see, dear, what big
consequences our tiniest actions often have?"

Faith sighed. "I wonder if I shall ever learn to be careful," she said,
hopelessly.

"Not until you really want to, dear."

"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 glass 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