"Oh no, mother, no I don't want any holiday. I don't want anything to do but stay here. Oh, mother." Her secret hovered on the tip of her tongue, her longing to confide in her mother almost overcame all her other feelings, but she checked herself. "Oh mother," she added lamely, "I want to do so much but--but----" A voice came calling up the stairs, "Audrey, Audrey, are you coming to give me my dinner, or am I to dine alone?" Mr. Carlyle put his head in round the door. "Don't you think the remnant of the crew should cling together?" Then kissing his wife and lifting away her tray, he drew Audrey's hand through his arm and made for the door. "Audrey will tell you of the plans we have been hatching," Mrs. Carlyle called after them. "Come up here when you have finished your dinner and tell me what you think about them." "Mother thought that now would be a good time to ask granny here to stay," said Audrey. "Did she!" Mr. Carlyle looked up with almost boyish pleasure on his face. Audrey was surprised. She had not dreamed that he would care so much. "That really looks as though your mother felt a little stronger. Don't you think so?" he added, and looked at her with such eager questioning eyes, she had not the heart to say that mother never thought of herself when she was planning happiness for others. She really was better though, and stronger. She herself said so, and the doctor said so. She could do several little things now that she could not have done a few months ago. "I am sorry granny will not see the children," her father was saying when her thoughts came back to him again. "She has never seen Joan yet. But your mother and she will have a more quiet time for talks together than they have ever had, and I am glad of that. We must try and make her as comfortable as we can, Audrey." "Yes, daddy, we will," she said, but not very hopefully. The meal ended, she got up from the table and strolled over to the window. As her eyes fell on the herb bed once more she remembered all her plans for making it a pleasant sight for her mother to look out on. She thought of her other plans too. Of all the writing she had meant to do while the work in the house was slacker, and here were all her plans upset, and a fresh load laid upon her shoulders. Across her thoughts came Irene's voice, and a fragment of their merry talks. "I know I shall never paint a big picture, nor write any great books, nor be a pioneer of any kind; but I know I can help to make a few people happier, and it is grand to feel that there is something one _can_ do. Something that is of use. I always feel as though people were my little children, and I've got to mother them."