as I have no children. But it would make a
nice morning-room--it must be a bright room on a sunny day."

"Yes," said mother, "that is why we chose it for a nursery. It is a pity
for you to see the house on such a dull day--it is such a bright house
generally--we have liked it very much."

Mother spoke sadly--I knew the tone of her voice quite well. We all
three had of course stopped playing and stood round listening to what
was said. We must have looked rather funny--Racey with a skirt of mine
and a white apron of Pierson's, Tom with a towel tied round him to look
like Banks in the pantry, and I with an old shawl and a bonnet very much
on one side, with a long feather, which we had got out of our
"dressing-up" things. We were so interested in listening to mother and
in looking at the ladies, particularly the golden-haired one, that we
quite forgot what queer figures we were, till the young lady turned
towards us.

"These are your little children," she said, with a smile--a rather sad
smile--to mother. "They are playing at dressing-up, I see."

"We're playing at ladies coming to see the house," I said, coming
forward--I never was a shy child--"There have been such a lot of
ladies."

Mother turned to the young lady.

"It is perhaps well that they should be able to make a play of it," she
said.

"Yes," said the young lady very gently, "I remember being just the same
as a child, when once my mother had to go away--to India it was--I was
so pleased to see her new trunks and to watch all the packing. And
now--how strange it seems that I could have endured the idea of her
going--now that I shall never have her again!"

Her lip quivered, and she turned away. Mother spoke to her very, very
kindly--the other lady, the nothing particular one was examining the
cupboards in the room and did not notice.

"Have you lost your dear mother?" she--our mother, I mean--asked the
young lady.

She could not speak for a moment. She just bowed her head. Then touching
her dress she said in a sort of whisper, "Yes; quite lately. She died in
London a fortnight ago. I have neither father nor mother now. I am
staying for a while with my cousin."

Then, partly I think to hide the tears which would not be kept back,
partly to help herself to grow calm again, she drew me to her and
stroked my long hair which hung down my back below my queer bonnet.

"What is your name, dear?" she said.

"Audrey," I replied. "Audrey Mildred Gower is my