"That’s very kind, grannie," said Monica, with a smile, "for I can see our money will soon melt. We have spent nearly thirty shillings, already!" "Out of your five pounds? Did none of the others contribute anything?" asked the old lady. "Oh, yes, seven or eight shillings between them, grannie. But they could not do more: Amethyst has very little pocket-money, I know, and I think the Franklyns are quite poor." Monica dropped her voice to a whisper. Not even to her grandmother could she explain her reasons for thinking so; but first, the barely furnished rooms at the doctor’s, and then the very, very simple and inexpensive mourning which was all that could be afforded for the grown-up daughters, as well as for the younger children, told their own tale, which Monica, brought up as she had been in the lap of luxury, thought the essence of poverty. "The doctor’s practice is not so large as his family," remarked Mrs. Beauchamp, with grim humour. "When is Elsa’s birthday, Monica?" she added, after a short pause. The girl, who had been thinking deeply, started at the sudden and apparently irrelevant question. "Why, next Saturday, grannie, the same day as Olive’s, of course." What could have made her grandmother ask? Probably she looked her surprise, for the old lady said: "You need not be afraid I am going to give them five-pound notes to squander on heathen Chinese," but her smile belied her words. "I was wondering how much younger they are than you." "Just over a year: they will be fifteen on their birthday. It will be a very sad day for them; Olive says Elsa can’t bear to think of a birthday without their mother." "Poor children," said Mrs. Beauchamp, in tones of pity; then, as if to change the subject, she said: "I suppose Amethyst Drury is younger again?" "Oh, yes, she won’t be fifteen until next summer, only she is so quick and clever that she is quite as forward at school as those who are older. I am much the oldest in our form," added Monica, with a sigh. Her backwardness in many subjects had been a source of trouble to her lately. "I expect you will know enough by the time you leave school, my dear, if you make the most of the next two years," said her grandmother kindly. "I have no fancy for you to become a blue-stocking." "I am afraid there is no fear of that, grannie!" and Monica laughed merrily. "I am far too big a dunce. Little Thistle will do the best of us all, I expect, but Elsa and Olive have to work hard, because they must earn their living when they leave school. Olive wants to go in for art, she says; and she is so clever at drawing I expect she will get on." "H’m! it’s a pity she hasn’t a fancy for cooking or washing," said the old lady bluntly; "either of those occupations would be more likely to provide her with food and clothing than dabbling about with messy paints. I expect my little Elsa is far more sensible, and means to be a home-bird."