ll I bear it--if--if, whichever way it is?"

But, in spite of herself, her mind wandered on, picturing what she would
do with her money. Should she send away for one of those pretty, cool,
cotton rest-gowns for her mother, that she longed so for. They were often
advertised, it would be quite easy to get one. She would still have a
good deal left for other things. Or should she give the money to her
father for a new great coat? His old one was fearfully shabby.
It would take the whole of her money, but it would be lovely when winter
came, to know that he was not cold. Oh! but she did want to get some new
curtains, or sheets, and--and Faith was dreadfully in need of a rain coat,
and: "Oh, dear!" she cried, rousing out of her day-dream, "and, after all,
I shall probably not even have a five-shilling consolation prize!
How silly I am to let myself think of it. It is enough to prevent its
coming."

She got on to her feet, and shook herself, to shake the dried grass and
heather from her skirt and her long hair--to shake off her foolishness
too. Well, five shillings would be useful. It would buy mother some
fruit, and wool for socks for father. "I wish though I could forget all
about it. I wish something would happen to drive it out of my head
again." And already something was happening--was on its way to her.

A letter had come for her while she was out, a letter from Irene.

"I can see that it is from Ilfracombe," said her mother as she handed it
to her. "Open it quickly, dear, I have been longing for you to come home
and tell me what it says about them all."

But Audrey's eyes were already devouring the pages. "Oh!" she gasped,
"oh, how lovely! How perfectly lovely!"

If there is one thing more aggravating than another, it is to hear someone
exclaiming over a letter, without giving a clue as to the cause of the
excitement.

"Audrey! Audrey, darling, don't tease me any more."

Audrey looked up, ashamed of her selfishness. Her mother's cheeks were
flushed with excitement. "Oh, mummy, I am so sorry," she cried,
repentantly.

"Never mind, dear. I could see that the news, whatever it was, was
pleasant."

"Oh, mother, it is lovely, perfectly--perfectly glorious. What do you
think? They are actually coming here to live--no, not in this house,"
laughing, "but in Moor End. Irene says that her grandfather has bought
the Mill House for them, and they hope to have it done up and ready for
them to move i