At last Elizabeth declared that the entertainment had come to an end, and the guests reluctantly prepared to depart. "You're quite sure you'll invite us to Etterick?" was Thomas's parting remark. "You won't forget when you're away?" "Oh, Thomas!" Elizabeth asked him reproachfully, "have I proved myself such a broken reed? I promise you faithfully that at the end of June I shall write to Mamma and suggest the day and the train and everything. I'll go further. I'll borrow a car and meet you at the junction. Will that do?" Thomas nodded, satisfied, and she patted each small head. "Good-bye, my funnies. We shall miss you very much." When Elizabeth had seen Buff in bed she came downstairs to the dismantled drawing-room. Ellen had tidied away the supper-table and made up the fire, and pulled forward the only decent chair, and had done her best to make the room look habitable. It was still daylight, but just too dark to read with comfort, and Elizabeth folded her tired hands and gave herself up to idleness. She had been getting gradually more depressed each day, as the familiar things were carried out of the house, and to-night her heart felt like a physical weight and her eyes smarted with unshed tears. The ending of an old song hurts. Sitting alone in the empty, silent room, a room once so well peopled and full of happy sound, she had a curious unsubstantial feeling, as if she were but part of the baseless fabric of a vision and might dissolve and "leave not a rack behind." ... The usually cheerful room was haunted to-night, memories thronged round her, plucking at her to recall themselves. It was in this room that her mother had sung to them and played with them--and never minded when things were knocked down and broken. Over there, in the corner of the ceiling near the window, there was still an ugly mark made by Walter and a cricket-ball, and she remembered how her father had said, so regretfully, "And it was such a handsome cornice!" and her mother had laughed--peals of laughter like a happy schoolgirl, and taken her husband's arm and said, "You dear innocent!" It was a funny thing to call one's father, she remembered thinking at the time, and did not seem to have any connection with the cornice. All sorts of little things, long forgotten, came stealing back; the boys' funny sayings--Sandy, standing a determined little figure, assuring his mother, "_I shall always stay with you, Mums, and if anyone comes to marry me I shall hide in the dirty clothes basket._" And now Sandy and his mother were together for always. Elizabeth slipped on to the floor, and kneeling by the chair as she had knelt as a child--"O God," she prayed, "don't take anybody else. Leave me Father and Buffy and the boys in India. Please leave them to me--if it be Thy will. Amen."