“And it couldn’t have been a rubber-plant,” chirped Bobsie with sudden easy confidence, “because then there wouldn’t be any rhyme.” “It was a hired hansom she came in,” observed Mrs. Hancock, cheerfully. “And did you notice that she ate three of those fried croquettes for lunch? Her stummick can’t be so very sensitive, after all! I shall have to tell my husband!” Certainly, Ernestine’s pitcher of ice-water had had a wonderfully quenching effect! But Mrs. Hudson is going, and, as I said, we can’t afford it. “I was only trying to help,” murmurs Ernie, mournfully pulling off one of her long stockings, as she sits on the floor in the middle of our little room. “Do stop writing, Elizabeth, and come to bed. There is a smudge of ink on the tip of your nose where you dipped it in the bottle, and I just know you are saying it is _all my fault_!” Dear little Ernie, how did she ever guess? Tuesday, December 2. Mrs. Hudson left this afternoon, despite the fact that Ernie apologised to her very meekly this morning. “Do you really think I ought, mother?” Ernie asked. “Yes, dear; I do,” mother answered. “She was frightened and hurt and we are all sorry.” Ernie made a wry face. “Perhaps she’ll stay, if she knows I did not mean it,” she said. “No,” answered mother. “I am sure that she will not. It is not for that reason that I want you to apologise. Apart from the financial inconvenience I can’t regret Mrs. Hudson’s decision. In some ways it will be a great relief.” “Well, here goes,” announced Ernestine. “The little Christian martyr bids a last bye-bye to her fond family.” And she turned and ran from the room. She found Mrs. Hudson packing. “You know I did not mean to tumble downstairs, Mrs. Hudson,” she told me later that she said:—“and I’m sorry that I had the pitcher with me. I was taking it up to your room for Mrs. _Bo_-gardus.” “You seemed to be coming _down_ the stairs when we met you,” returned Mrs. Hudson, suspiciously. “Yes,” confessed Ernie. “I know it. I had brought up only one glass. I was going back for another, and my foot tripped.” “Well,” returned Mrs. Hudson, evidently quite unmollified, “we will say no more about it. For a long time I have felt that a change would be desirable. Yesterday’s incident simply confirmed me in my half-formed resolution. I am going from here to stop with a Friend for a day or two, till I can look around and get more comfortably settled.” “I hope you will have a good time, I’m sure,” observed Ernie, forgivingly. “But I wouldn’t want to visit her.” Mrs. Hudson stared. “_You?_” she queried. “Oh, my dear!” And directly after lunch she left us, and Ernie started in on a wild hunt for “the dump-cart contract.” To look for the contract is Ernie’s last resource in times of trouble.