"It's easy for them to talk as don't do anything." Was that what Mary thought of her? Did others think the same? Was that the character she had earned? The words rang in her ears, the mortification bit deep. It was hateful to be so spoken to by a little ignorant country servant; but the sharpest sting lay in the knowledge that Mary was right. No one knew, and Audrey would not have liked anyone to know how she loathed doing the things that she blamed others for not doing. "What is the matter?" asked Faith, "can't you find something you want?" "The glasses aren't clean, and there is no hot water to wash them with. I suppose it is my fault for taking Mary away to help with my room. I didn't think--I didn't know----" "Oh, that's all right," said Faith cheerfully, "wash them in cold water. Here, give them to me, and I will do it." But Audrey's eyes had been opened, and for the time, at any rate, she saw some things very clearly. "No," she said promptly, "if you can wash them in cold water, I can. You sit down and rest, and talk to me. You must be dead tired," and Faith obeyed, wondering. That night Audrey, in a state of great delight, slept in her new room. It was very warm certainly, so close up under the roof, but it was as clean and neat as a new pin--all the untidiness was left behind in Faith's room. Audrey never gave a thought to the muddle and discomfort there. When she closed her door behind her for the night her heart was full of nothing but pleasure and pride in her new possession. She went to the open window, and looked out on the moonlit world below, on the pretty cottages, the old church nestling at the foot of the hill, at the wide, white road, winding up and up in the misty distance until she could not see where it ended. For the first time the beauty of the spot where her home stood, and the love of it, entered her heart. "If only--if only," she thought, "if we were not so poor, and could have pretty things; if only it was more beautiful, more dainty, I could love it very much." But, as yet, she had not the eyes to see, nor the heart to feel that her home possessed beauties beyond all others--the most precious beauties of all--love, sympathy, cheerfulness under poverty, patience with each other's faults, and, above all others, a great unselfishness. Nor was it yet brought home to her that those smaller beauties that it lacked, the daintiness, neatness, the order that she so yearned for, it rested with her to supply. CHAPTER VI. Perhaps, after all, Audrey's move to the attic was a good one. She herself was certainly happier, and the others were happier too, for to feel that someone is always discontented and miserable, is very depressing, and to know that someone is finding fault with everything one does, is apt to make one irritable and faultfinding too.