"It was very thoughtful of you, Annie, to ride on to Rashleigh," said Mrs Shelf. "I did want these sweetbreads. I mean to make a very delicate little stew out of them for your uncle's dinner. The doctor says that he wants a lot of building up. He is an old man, my dear, and if we are not very precious of him, and careful of him, we sha'n't keep him long. There are few of his like in this world, Annie, and it will be a sad day for many when the Lord calls him." "Oh, but that won't be for years and years," said Annie, who disliked this sort of talk immensely. "Well," she added, "I will go and sit with uncle now for a bit, and will make his tea for him presently; I know just how he likes it." "Do, my dear. You know where his favourite cups and saucers are, and I am baking some special tea-cakes in the oven; and you can boil the kettle yourself, can't you, Annie? for I shall be as busy as a bee looking after Peggie and the churning. That wench would try any one; she hasn't a bit of head on her shoulders. And, by the way, Annie, what about the receipt? You paid Dawson, didn't you?" Annie was leaving the kitchen. She turned her head slightly. "Dawson will send the receipt," she said. "To tell you the truth, I was in such a hurry to get back that I didn't wait for it." "Well, my dear," said Mrs Shelf, "that is all right; I expect it will arrive on Monday. The cart won't be here before then, for we've got our week's supply of meat in. It came this morning." "Splendid," thought Annie. "By Monday I shall be away." She almost skipped into her uncle's study. The old man was better already. He was lying back in his chair, and was reading a paper which had come by the afternoon's post. "Ah, here you are, my love!" he said. "Here I am, uncle. I am so glad I met Dr Brett; he has made you better already." "He has, child; he always does me good." Annie drew a chair forward, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. The impatient look had left her face. It looked tranquil and at its best. "By the way, child," said Mr Brooke, "you will want me to write that letter for you." "You must not worry about it now, really, uncle," said Annie, laying her hand on his. "It will do quite well to-morrow--quite well," she added. "You know that whatever your Annie is, she would do nothing to make you worse."