ried through the silent hall and up the stairs to her room, and
dropping on the seat by the window, she leaned her head over the ledge.
Now, at last, she might give way to her feelings and sob out some of the
pent-up misery in her heart.

"But--mother--she will be expecting me." The thought came to her more
swiftly than the tears forced their way through her lids. It was nearly
lunch time too, and there was no one but herself to get it.

"Oh, dear," sighed Audrey, "there is not even time to be miserable!"
But that thought made her laugh, and she ran downstairs to Mary.

Mary had evidently shed a few tears, but she was already cheering herself
up with plans for the homecoming.

"At first it seemed that melancholy and quiet, Miss Audrey, I felt I'd
never be able to bear it, speshully when I remembered that Miss Irene
wouldn't be coming back any more. It's like losing one of ourselves,
isn't it, miss? And when I think of that dear baby gone so far,"--the
tears welled up in Mary's eyes--"and there'll be no rompseying with her
to-night before she goes to bed--well, I can't 'elp it. I may be silly,
but I can't 'elp it, though there, she's happy enough, I daresay, with her
little bucket and spade and all, and she won't miss us 'alf as much as
we'll miss 'er!"

"Yes, baby will love it, Mary, they all will. We have got to cheer
ourselves up by thinking of how happy they all are. And they will come
back looking so well and strong. We shall get more accustomed to the
quietness in a day or two, and the time will soon pass."

"Oh my, yes, miss! The time won't 'ang when once I begin to get my 'and
in. It won't be long enough for all I'm going to do by time they come
back. I am going to have their rooms as nice as nice can be; and I'm
going to paint Master Tom's barrow, and I'm going to make a rabbit 'utch
for Miss Debby and mend her dolls' pram----"

"But Mary, what about your holiday. You must have that while the house is
so empty. I must speak to mother about it."

"Oh, I don't want any holiday, Miss Audrey." Mary's voice was quite
decisive. "I mean, I don't want to go away. I haven't got any money to
waste, and holidays do cost more'n they are worth. Leastways, mine do,
for I'm so home-sick all the time, I'm only longing for them to be over.
It seems waste, doesn't it, miss?"

"It does," agreed Audrey gravely, "but I suppose you have the joy of
coming back, and you appreciate home all the more for having