bunch
of roses in her hand, and her violin-case. She looked at her mother
inquiringly, for Mrs Hunt had not just then any appearance of
discomfort. She was sitting in an easy canvas chair, a broad-brimmed
hat upon her head, and a newspaper in her hands; her slippered feet
rested on a little wooden stool, and on a table by her side were a cup
of tea, a nicely buttered roll, and a few very ripe strawberries.

"Hadn't you better wait," said Delia, after a moment's pause, "until you
can go yourself? Mrs Winn would much rather see you. Besides--it is
my music afternoon."

Mrs Hunt was looking up and down the columns of the paper while her
daughter spoke: she did not answer at once, and when she did, it was
scarcely an answer so much as a continuation of her own train of
thoughts.

"She has had a tickling cough for so many nights. She can hardly sleep
for it, and I promised her a pot of my own black currant jelly."

"It's a great deal out of my way," said Delia.

"If you go," continued Mrs Hunt, without raising her eyes, "you will
find the row of little pots on the top shelf of the storeroom cupboard."

Delia bit her lip.

"If I go," she said, "I must shorten my music-lesson."

Mrs Hunt said nothing, but looked as amiable as ever. A frown gathered
on Delia's forehead: she stood irresolute for a minute, and then, with a
sudden effort, turned and went quickly into the house. Mrs Hunt
stirred her tea, tasted a strawberry, and leant back in her chair with a
gentle sigh of comfort. In a few minutes Delia reappeared hurriedly.

"There is _no_ black currant jelly in the storeroom," she said, with an
air of exasperation.

Mrs Hunt looked up in mild surprise.

"How strange!" she said. "Could I have moved those pots? Ah, now I
remember! I had a dream that all the jam was mouldy, and so I moved it
into that cupboard in the kitchen. That was why cook left. She didn't
like me to use that cupboard for the jam."

"And, meanwhile, where is it?" said Delia.

"Such a wicked mother to give you so much trouble!" murmured Mrs Hunt,
with a sweet smile. "But, Del, my love, you must try not to look so
morose for trifles--it gives _such_ an ugly turn to the features.
You'll find the jelly in that nice corner cupboard in the kitchen.
Here's the key"--feeling in her pocket--"no; it is not here--where did I
leave my keys? Oh, you'll find them in the pocket of my black serge
dress--and if they're not there, they are sure t