But the week would soon be over---- She consoled herself by that thought as she sat before the little window knitting a woollen coat to wear when she went to office in Flodmouth. Every now and then she glanced drearily at the grey waves with the white crests, coming on and on---- It was a rotten world, and she didn't care. What was the good of it all, anyway? Then a subscriber passed through to the promenade; but her reply to his remark about the weather was as mechanical as her release of the iron turnstile. Directly he was gone she looked out to sea again, thinking now of a girl who had been drowned farther along the coast not long before. Well, she only wished the waves would come over the promenade and take her with them, then she'd be out of it all. But she did not mean that really; because certain qualities she inherited from her sturdy Yorkshire ancestors would always prevent her from choosing the way of the neurotic. She would be brave enough to live out her life, though she had ceased to expect happiness as a right. A sharp gust of rain on the window made her look down the promenade. Now the stray figures would come scurrying through again to their homes or lodgings, and she automatically prepared to release the turnstile quickly to oblige people in haste. Then, with a little leap of the pulses, she saw Aunt Creddle. It was Aunt Creddle, out at half-past eleven on baking-day, with her print, working dress ballooning under that old coat and the hair straggling over her face. Caroline jumped up and ran out of the pay-box, her knitting still in her hand, the shower of cold, sharp drops driving across her. "What's the matter?" she cried. "Has one of the children got hurt?" Mrs. Creddle so panted for breath that she could only sign with a toil-scarred hand for Caroline to go back into shelter, but on reaching a little protection from the wind she managed to gasp out: "Nobody's ill. There's nothing the matter. Not in a manner of speaking. Can I come inside there?" Caroline took her arm and put her into the chair, then shut the door in the side of the little wooden turret. They two seemed very close together in the midst of the storm and wind. "Why, whatever made you come out like this?" said Caroline, removing the wet cloak. "You must have wanted a job, aunt." Mrs. Creddle shook her head, her hand on her heart--for she was a stout woman and upset by her tussle with the elements. "You may be sure that it was something that wouldn't keep," she said at last. Then she burst forth: "Carrie, your uncle has been to Mr. Wilson! He's been and told him that if he ever catches you together again he'll break a stick over his back. He lost a couple of hours this morning, and he went and told him. Now he's gone to his work, and I come on here." "What!" gasped Caroline, her eyes black in a face as white as death. "Uncle's dared to insult me by doing a thing like that? What made him do it?"