don't want to part you, but of course we want
Irene. We have missed her sadly."

"It has been lovely having her," said Audrey softly. In her overwrought
state, she felt inclined to cry at the mere thought of losing her.
Indeed, she felt so stupid, so miserable, so tongue-tied, she could not
stand there any longer lest the sharp-eyed old gentleman should see the
tears in her eyes. What a weak, silly baby she was!

She turned away abruptly as though to resume her walk. "Oh, you are not
going yet.--I forgot, of course you were walking away from home.
I just wondered----"

She had intended to, for she was tired, and it would be tea-time before
she got home, if she did not hurry. But her longing was to go in any
direction but his.

"I--I am soon," she said lamely, forcing down her feelings and her tears.
"Did you want me to do anything?"

"I just wondered if you would take this note to your parents for me.
I have to go to the mill first, and be at the station by five o'clock, and
I am afraid I shall hardly do it."

"Of course I will. I beg your pardon. I did not understand."

The old gentleman's kind eyes looked at her very keenly as he handed her
the letter. "You don't look very well, Miss Audrey; I hope you aren't
going in for measles too! Or have you been working too hard, taking care
of Irene? You look tired."

Audrey smiled back at the face so full of sympathy and kindly concern.
"I don't think I am really tired," she said, speaking as brightly as she
could, "and I am quite sure I am not going in for measles, and I certainly
haven't been doing too much for Irene. I have walked rather far, that is
all, and it is dreadfully hot, isn't it? I think I will go home now,
after all. It must be nearly tea-time."

Tea was laid and waiting for her by the time she reached home. But before
she noticed that, her eyes had sought Irene's face, as though she expected
to read her verdict there.

Irene's face was beaming. "Splendid," she whispered, reassuringly.
Audrey felt as though a great load had been lifted off her heart.
"I will just run up and take off my hat and shoes," she said, more gaily
than she had spoken for a long time. Irene followed her to her room.
"I couldn't wait," she panted, as she reached the top stair. "Oh, Audrey,
I do like it; it is lovely. I am sure it--will be one of the best."
She wound up with sudden caution, remembering that it would be cruel to
raise her hopes too high. "But d