And now began a very strenuous life for Rachel. Mrs. Greville had been as good as a curate to Luke; and she was now laid aside unable to do any work at all. She lay thinking and worrying over the fact that she was no longer any good to her son. The worry did not help her to recover from her illness. In fact the doctor told Rachel that so long as her husband's mother allowed herself to be consumed with anxiety she could not hope to get strong. Was there no-one, he asked, who could help in the matter? Surely there were some ladies in the parish who could divide the work between them? Rachel knew that no more workers were to be had. In fact several had given up their districts. They so entirely disagreed with the Vicar in his determination not to allow the parish hall to be used for whist drives and dancing, that they felt out of sympathy with him, and had left the Church. Those who remained were already too full of work to undertake anything further. Luke came home from seeing his mother one day, in the depths of despair. "She is worrying herself to death," he said, "over the Mother's Meeting and the Sunday School." Then he looked across at his wife, who was playing "Dickory, dickory dock!" with the baby. Her face had been full of love and happiness, but at his words the smile faded. She knew what was coming. "I suppose," he said, then he hesitated. "Well?" asked Rachel. "I suppose you couldn't manage to take my mother's place?" "To superintend the Sunday School and the Mother's Meeting?" "Yes. It would lift such a burden off her heart. You see she is one of those people who worry unnecessarily, and I can't tell you what a relief it would be to me to be able to tell her that her place has been supplied." "I don't quite see how I can, with baby," said Rachel. "But there is Polly. She likes looking after him." "Dickory, dickory, dock," sang Rachel again, "the mouse ran up the clock." But while playing she was not only thinking of the anxiety which would be hers if she had to leave baby constantly under Polly's care; but she was wondering if her own health would stand it. She must keep well for Luke's sake as well as for baby's, and lately she had felt sometimes at the end of her tether. She had already undertaken a district of her own and various other duties, and what with the cooking and the house, not to mention all the work that little Pat entailed, she had felt that if she did not soon have a rest she would break down altogether. Yet here was Luke, looking at her with his anxious pleading eyes; and she had never failed him yet, how could she fail him now? "Dickory, dickory, dock," sang Rachel as she ran her fingers up Pat's little arm: "The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck one, Down the mouse ran, Dickory, dickory, dock." Baby crowed with merriment, and Rachel looked up gravely at her husband. "I'll see what I can do," she said quietly. Luke's face beamed.