"Mother, I shall bring you your glass of milk every day, and I shall try to bring it more nicely each time. Then, perhaps, I shall remember to take the next step. Now I must run away to look for Joan." Once again Mrs. Carlyle drew her closer. "My good little Faith," she said softly, "Joan's little second mother. What would she or I have done, darling, without you to take care of us?" And her eyes were misty with tears as she lay back on her cushions. Faith's eyes were dim, too, as she went softly on her way. "But second mothers have to be always setting good examples, just as real mothers have," she thought. And, by way of beginning, she set about making her bedroom as neat as a new pin. CHAPTER XIII. The last day for sending in the 'Plays' was July 31st. That was now but a fortnight off, and Audrey, in a state of feverish nervousness, had completed her last clean copy. She had worked hard each afternoon, and conscientiously, only to be filled at the last with despair and despondence. She had read, re-read, written and re-written it, until she knew every word by heart, and all seemed stale, dull, and trivial. Irene, coming up to her room one afternoon, had found her with flushed cheeks and swelled eyelids, and despair plainly visible in every line of her face and form. "It is no good," she groaned. "I shall not send it. I couldn't send anything so dull and foolish. They will only laugh." "That is what you want them to do, isn't it?" asked Irene, cheerfully. "Not the kind of laughter I mean. Oh, Irene, it is miserably bad." Irene shook her head. "I simply don't believe it. You have been through it so often, you can't judge. Will you let me read it? I will tell you quite honestly how it strikes me." Audrey coloured, but she looked grateful. "If you would care to, but I am ashamed for anyone to see it. And, oh, I _am_ so disappointed, and, oh," throwing herself wearily on her bed, "oh, so tired of it. The mere sight of it almost makes me ill." "Poor old girl, you are tired and over-anxious. Is this it?" pointing to a little heap of MS. on Audrey's writing-table in the window. "Yes." "May I read the old one, too? The first copy you finished, I mean, before you began to alter it." Audrey opened her desk and took out another heap of paper, tumbled, scribbled over, and evidently much used. "Now I am going to shut myself up in my room, and," with a laugh and a nod at the despairing author, "I want no-one to come near me until I show myself again." "Very well," said Audrey, "but I shall not come near you then. I shall be much too nervous." "Then I will come to you and stalk you down. Look here, Audrey, don't shut yourself up here all the afternoon. You have no writing to do now. Take my advice, and go for a good long walk, and try not to think about the play, or--or anything connected with it. Keep your heart up, old girl. I am sure it is good, even if it won't be the best."