“The child will just end by moping herself into a decline,” said the sturdy dame after a few preliminary remarks. “Look at her cheeks—not a morsel of colour left in ’em, but just as if it had all been washed out. And then, her appetite! I’ve watched her at meal-times, and she hardly eats more than enough to keep a canary alive. And when did she sing last, pray, without being asked—she that used to be as merry as a thrush about the house and needed no asking at all? And her laugh that used to do one’s heart good to hear—that’s dead and buried. Whoever hears it nowadays?” “But what is to be done, Tamsin?” pleaded Miss Jane, thoroughly frightened by the picture the old woman had drawn. “Where is a remedy to be found?” “That is hardly for me to say, Miss Jane. But if Miss Ethel were a niece of mine, I’m pretty clear what I would do.” “And what would that be, Tamsin? You know that my sister and I are always pleased to listen to your suggestions.” “I should take her right away to the seaside, or to some place where she’s never been before. It’s change the girl wants. At her age they all need it. It’s only when folk get elderly that they grow loth to leave their own chimney-corner. Young birds always want to try their wings; and to young folk it always seems as if there must be something better on the far side of the hill than on the side their eyes are used to.” “But the expense,” faltered Miss Jane. “My sister and I have very little money by us, and our next dividends will not be due till the new year. And at the seaside one is robbed so terribly—at least, that is what _we_ term it—although _they_, no doubt, call it by a different name.” Tamsin was running her fingers along the bottom of her apron in a sort of diffident way altogether unusual with her. “If it’s only a question of expense, Miss Jane, that can soon be got over,” she said. “As it happens, I’ve a matter of sixty pounds put away in the savings bank, not a penny of which will ever be the least bit of use to me—having neither chick nor child to leave it to. Take it, Miss Jane; it has been saved up out of the wages paid me by you and your sister. Take it and give the poor child the holiday she needs so sorely.” Rarely had Jane Thursby looked more distressed and perturbed than she did just then, and yet in her cheeks there was a delicate flush which for the passing moment made her seem almost a girl again. “How dare you, Tamsin, even to hint at such a thing!” she exclaimed in a voice which she vainly strove to render severe. Then her lips began to tremble and a moisture shone in her eyes. Turning suddenly and laying a hand on each of Tamsin’s shoulders, she said with a quaver in her voice: “You foolish but generous-hearted creature, cannot you see—cannot you understand how impossible it is that my sister and I should accept any such offer?”