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 into before winter sets in. Won't it be lovely? Oh, mother, aren't you glad?" Mrs. Carlyle was more than glad. She was thankful. Her mind was relieved of a care which had increased as the days sped on. Now her girls would have companionship, and with friends whose influence and example would be all for good. Tom, too, would have a companion. And, perhaps, who knows, they could share their lessons too. Mrs. Carlyle's thoughts flew on; but her thoughts were all for her children. She had not yet considered what it would mean to herself,--the companionship, the kind friends at hand in case of need. "You are very, very glad about it, aren't you, dear?" she asked, her heart and her eyes full of sympathy with her child's gladness. "Glad! Oh, mother. I was never so happy in my life. It seems now as though everything is just perfect!" "And granny? Have you given up wanting to go back to her, dear?" A shadow fell on Audrey's happiness. "Granny was speaking about it," she said hurriedly, "only yesterday, and I told her I could not come. I thought I was--I felt I ought to stay here, even after you are well again, for there is a lot to do, and--and, mother--you don't think I must go back, do you?" Her voice was full of anxiety. She had little dreamed at one time that she would ever be overjoyed at being told she could not do so; but now. Her eyes sought her mother's face anxiously. She longed to hear her say reassuringly that there was not the slightest need, that she could not be spared.