Mrs. Ogden got up and kissed her. "Do you think," she said softly, "that I can't make sacrifices for my girl, when she demands them of me?" "Oh, Mother, I do beg of you to come to London! I know I could make you comfortable there." Mrs. Ogden drew herself away. "No, I can't do that," she said. "I've lived here since you and Milly were little children, my husband died here and so did your sister; you mustn't ask me to leave my memories, Joan." In July the servant left. "No, darling, don't do the housework for me; I must learn to do things for myself," said her mother, as Joan was going into the kitchen as a matter of course. A period of chaos ensued. Mrs. Ogden struggled with brooms and slop-pails as a mosquito might struggle with Cleopatra's Needle. The food she prepared came out of tins, for the most part, and what was fresh was spoilt before it reached the table. Their meals were tragedies, and when on one occasion Joan's endurance gave out over a particularly nasty stew, Mrs. Ogden burst into tears. "Oh! and I did try so hard!" she sobbed. Joan put her arms round her. "You poor darling," she comforted, "don't cry; it's not so bad, really; only I don't see how I'm ever to leave you." Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes. "But you must leave me," she said steadily. "I want you to go, since you've set your heart on it." "Well, I do believe you'll starve!" said Joan, between laughter and tears. Every evening Mrs. Ogden was worn out. She could not read, she could not sew; whenever she tried her eyelids drooped and she had to give it up. In the end she was forced to sit quietly with closed eyes. Joan, watching her apprehensively from the other side of the lamp, would feel her heart tighten. "Mother, go to bed; you're tired to death." "Oh, no, darling, I'll sit up with you; I shall have plenty of evenings to go to bed early when you've gone." Not content, apparently, with moderate hours of work, Mrs. Ogden bought an alarm clock. The first that Joan knew of this instrument of torture was when it woke her with a fearful start at six-thirty one morning. She could not exactly locate whence the sound came, but rushed instinctively into her mother's room. "What is it? Are you ill? What was that bell?" she panted. Mrs. Ogden, already out of bed, pointed triumphantly to the alarm. "I had to get it to wake me up," she explained. "But, my dear mother, it's only half-past six; you can't get up at this hour!" "There's the kitchen fire to light, darling, and I want you to have a really hot bath by half-past seven." Joan groaned. "Go back to bed at once," she ordered, giving her a gentle push. "I'll light the kitchen fire; this is ridiculous!" 4 It was the middle of July; only a few weeks more and then freedom. "Freedom, freedom, freedom!" repeated Joan to herself in a kind of desperation. "I'm going to be free at last." But something in her shrank and weakened. "No, no," she thought in terror. "I will leave her; I _must_."