peated over
and over to herself; and so bravely and cheerfully she took up her new
life, and her letters home were so bright and amusing, that both Agatha
and Gwen thought that she was perfectly happy and well.

CHAPTER XVIII

Patty's Grave

'But when they left her to herself again,
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field,
Approaching through the darkness, called.'--_Tennyson._

The summer came and went very quietly. Gwen remained with Agatha, but
was wholly engrossed in her writing. Sometimes Agatha would
remonstrate with her, when she came to breakfast looking worn and
haggard, and confessing she had been writing in the study till between
two and three in the morning.

'You will wear yourself out. Why don't you take it more quietly?
There is no need for such labour.'

'You would realize the need if you were in my shoes,' said Gwen, 'and
felt your debts hanging over your head every minute of the day. I will
never rest until I have repaid all that has been lost.'

'But that will be impossible, and unnecessary.'

'I don't think so,' was the curt reply.

Gwen was much up in town, sometimes at the British Museum, and she
worked away at Mr. Lester's manuscripts whenever she could spare time
from her usual writing. One afternoon she rejoiced Agatha's heart by
announcing her intention of taking a walk.

'I shall stroll over to the Howitts. Have you any message for Deb?'

'I think not. I hear that Patty has not been well this last week. You
might take her a little pudding. Deb was not working at the vicarage
this week because of her illness.'

Gwen set out, and the fresh, keen autumn air refreshed and invigorated
her. She found the little cottage nearly hidden from view by the
heavily-laden apple trees, but there was a stillness about the place
that was not usual. The door was on the latch, and when she stepped
inside the kitchen, it was empty.

However, the door leading into the sisters' bedroom was ajar, and Gwen
found Patty in bed, and Deb vainly endeavouring to make her swallow a
basin of gruel.

'It isn't gruel I'll be wantin', when I know how you burns my best
'namel saucepan in the doin' of it. 'Tis a mercy I've got the honey
all in, and now there'll be the apples to be gathered and preserved;
and who's to have the doin' of it, wi' you, whose heart and hands are
only in the dressmakin', and me a achin' and smartin' wi' pains from
head to toe, and worse to foller?'