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 chat