But, tired and exhausted though she was, Audrey could only make a pretence of taking the meal. To be sitting alone in that big room, which she had hitherto never known without her granny, and feeling that in all probability she would never, never see her there again, was sufficient in itself to destroy any appetite she had. Her thoughts, too, were full of the coming interview. What could she say and do? Would granny be much changed? These and a dozen other questions hammered at her brain as she poured herself out a cup of tea. How she had once longed to be allowed to pour tea from that silver tea-pot, and pick up the sugar with those dainty little tongs, which granny would never allow her to touch. What a proud day it would be, so she used to think, when she might! But now--now that the day had come, she found no pride or pleasure in it, only a sort of shrinking. It seemed to her to be taking advantage of granny's helplessness--that she had no right. She was haunted by the sight of granny's fragile, delicate hand clasping that handle, and delicately turning over the lumps of sugar to find one of a suitable size. "Would she be much changed?" Her thoughts flew again to the coming interview, which she so dreaded. Yet, after all, though sad, it was very quiet and simple. Granny lay flat in her bed, looking much as usual, save that the face surrounded by the night-cap frill was thinner, and gentler, perhaps, and more kind. "Come round to the other side, dear," she said softly, as Audrey approached her, and only then did Audrey realise that granny's right arm and side were helpless. She was very white as she stooped down to kiss her grandmother, and her lips trembled. "It is all right, dear; don't you grieve about me," granny whispered. She was so weak she could not speak very well. "I am quite ready-- anxious--to go. I am very glad you came to me, Audrey; you have made me very happy." Audrey knelt down by the bed, holding her granny's hand in both hers. "I--oh, granny, I wish I had never left you!" She pressed the fragile hand against her cheek caressingly. "I--I didn't want to go. I shall have home and the others always, and you only for a little while." Her sobs choked her. "Dear, you do not know--no one knows--how long you may have each other, and it was your duty to go. Your mother was ill, and needed you; I was well, and had many to take care of me. I did not want to let you go, but I was glad afterwards, when I saw you again, I knew it had been best for you. Keep to the path you have set your feet on so bravely, dear." Granny's voice died away. She was too tired to talk any more. "To-morrow," she gasped; "send nurse--now."