ter 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 sturdy 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