"Not Littleburgh, but Bristol," Mary said gravely. "Littleburgh would not do. Mr. Baitson wants her to be in some quite new place, away from all that reminds her of her trouble. We think Bristol will be best; and friends are so kind in giving help." "And can you be away all this time from—" I said, and stopped, the colour coming over my face. I hadn't spoken or heard of her brother since my father's death. "Yes," Mary said; and she didn't speak a word more. I could not understand her look. It meant something particular, I didn't know what. Three days later, when I was just dressed, having got up for the first time before dinner, Mary said— "Now I am going to take you downstairs.' "To see mother," I said in a whisper. "Yes," said she; "unless you would rather not." "I don't know. I think I ought," I said; but I felt shaky. "I think so, too," says she. "It may do your mother good. And, Kitty," says she, "you've got to put yourself out of sight, and try to be brave. Don't mind if she turns from you at first. Just walk into the kitchen quite naturally, and speak to her exactly as usual." I promised to try; but as we went downstairs I clung tight to her, frightened to think what was coming. I'm not sure that Mary didn't feel a sort of fear too, she looked so pale. "Now, Kitty," she whispers, outside the kitchen, "don't you mind anything, but go straight up to her, and be like your own self." Easier said than done; but I did my best. I opened the door, and went to the table, where mother was ironing, though I felt as if my legs wouldn't carry me there. "Mother!" I said. She looked up at me, and down again. Her face had the sort of fixed look I'd seen the first night; and her black dress and widow's cap made her so strange. "Speak!" I heard Mary whisper. "Mother!" I said, "I haven't seen you for ever so long. Mayn't I have a kiss?" But she went on ironing, hard and fast. Mary came close, and put an arm round my waist. "Mrs. Phrynne," says she cheerfully, and I did wonder at her for being so cheerful— "Mrs. Phrynne, Kitty has been ill, and she is going away to-morrow. Mayn't she have a kiss before she goes?" Mother didn't answer one word. "Come, Kitty, give your mother a kiss," says Mary, leading me. I did as I was bid, and mother bore the kiss, but that was all, scarce stopping a moment in her work, and showing not a sign of pleasure. I couldn't bear it, hardly, and I was ready to drop. Mary gave me a chair, and I set off sobbing, and presently I saw mother had left her ironing and was standing to watch me in a queer sort of way, as if she couldn't make me out. "Poor Kitty," Mary says. Mother came near, looking hard still. "Kitty! Yes, it's Kitty," says she. "Your own Kitty," Mary says. "Yes, it's Kitty," mother says, but not as if she cared. "O mother, do love me," I broke out, feeling so miserable. "I've got no heart to love anybody," mother says, and she turned off back to her ironing. "He's gone," said she.