“Ah, well—one knows how they want men!” says Brackenhurst sagely. “Actually pay emigrants to come. Or is that New Zealand? And that girl from the ‘Plough’!” Brackenhurst coughs. “Yes, doing splendidly! Ah, well, they want servants so out there, you see! An absolute famine! Put up with anything—anything! Extraordinary! No caps! Bicycles provided! Evenings out! And wages! Incredible!” Brackenhurst, with an eye on its own dragooned and aproned treasure, hesitates between envy of a land that can afford such wages and concede such privileges, and a preference for its own England of modest incomes and attendant uniforms. And volunteers news of a nephew’s friend who was in the rush of ’ninety-six, an eulogy of Ella Wheeler Wilcox and a recipe for American rarebit, and so to Mrs. Beeton and home waters again. But we watch the two bright spots of colour fade again in Mrs. Cloud’s cheeks, and her hand relax that held so tightly the arm of the chair, while with the other she lifts her tea-cup and drinks, a little thirstily, and are glad that Brackenhurst is less observant than you or I should be, of its dear Mrs. Cloud. And yet, incredible as it may seem, it was not long before Laura knew all about John, and Lettice, and little Mary-Rosalind. The big fat family albums, with their stamped, stuffed leathern covers and biblical clasps, were not to be kept from Laura, reverent yet intrigued: and once fairly open on Mrs. Cloud’s lap at a little girl in pantalettes and an urchin that Laura at first glance had mistaken for Justin, there would be stories. Laura would ground-bait artfully. “Was Justin ever naughty when he was little, Mrs. Cloud?” Mrs. Cloud would affect forgetfulness. “Oh, not more than other children, I suppose. Aren’t your little brothers ever naughty?” Laura would consider. “Oh, yes. Silly naughty. But not exciting. Not like Justin when he threw the porridge at Miss Beamish.” Her eyes gleamed admiration. “And that day, you know, at the photographer’s—when he was so cross. The picture’s here.” “That was John,” said Mrs. Cloud quickly. “Oh??” Laura could put a good deal into her exclamations. “Oh???” The knitting needles would slacken for long minutes, till at last, with a click and a gleam, caught from the fire or from Mrs. Cloud’s eyes, hands and voice would pick up the thread. “I’m afraid he was a bad boy, too. I remember——” Then Laura would give a sigh of achievement and settle down to listen.