muttered at last, and even in her own ears her voice sounded gruff and ungracious; but Miss Margaret only smiled, and slipped one arm caressingly round her waist.

“Ah, but I sha’n’t think that when I wake in the morning and see my little goldilocks lying beside me, with her curls all over the pillow like the princess in the fairy tale!” she said, and at that Mildred was obliged to laugh too, for she was like most other mortals—marvellously susceptible to a touch of flattery!

“A very grumpy princess!” she said penitently. “I am really awfully grateful, Mardie, but I can’t show it. You will excuse me if I am nasty for a day or two, won’t you, dear?”

Mardie raised her eyebrows and pursed up her lips in comical fashion. She was always unusually lively for a school-mistress, but already it seemed to Mildred that she was quite a different person from the “Miss Margaret” of term time. She wore a pretty blue dress, with lace frillings on the bodice, and walked about with an airy tread, as though released from a weight of responsibility.

“Well,” she said, nodding her head, and looking as mischievous as a girl herself, “I’ll make allowances, of course, but I hope you won’t try me too far. I am a delightful person out of school time, and mean to enjoy every day of the holidays to the full—unless you prevent me I shall be dependent upon you!”

“I prevent you,—I!”

That seemed to put the matter in a new light, and Mildred was overcome at the thought of her own selfishness. Whatever she might have to suffer, she must not spoil poor Mardie’s pleasure in her well-earned rest. That would be inexcusable. She determined to do her utmost to be brave for Mardie’s sake.

The next day Miss Chilton departed on her travels, and a letter arrived from Mrs Ross giving a serious account of the little invalid’s condition. She evidently tried to write as cheerfully as possible, but Mildred read anxiety between the lines, and was full of compunction.

She had never imagined that Robbie would be really ill, but had looked upon the fever as a childish complaint which would make him hot and red for a few days, and put everyone else to inconvenience for as many weeks. She had not only felt, but said, that it was very “tiresome” of him to have taken ill at such a time; but now the remembrance of poor wee Robbie lying in bed crying, “’Cause Millie would be angry wif him,” cut her to the heart. The day seemed endlessly long and dreary, and the next morning’s news was worse instead of better. Robbie’s life was in danger. The doctor hoped, however, that a change might take place within the next twenty-four hours, and Mrs Ross promised to telegraph in the afternoon to allay his sister’s anxiety.

Miss Margaret looked very grave, but she said little, and did not attempt to follow when Mildred fled upstairs, leaving the letter in her hands. There are times when we all prefer to be alone, and this morning Mildred could not have brought herself to speak to anyone in the world but her mother. She lay motionless on the window-seat, her head resting on the open sill, the summer breeze stirring the curls on her forehead, while the clock in the hall chimed one hour after another, and the morning crept slowly away. For the most part she felt stupefied, as if she could not realise all that the tidings meant, but every now and then her heart swelled with an intolerable ache.

It was true that Robbie had caused more trouble than his five sisters put together, but his exploits had been of an innocent, lovable nature, and when the temporary annoyance which they caused was over, she and her mother had laughed over them with tender pride. He was such a manly little fellow! Many a boy would have been spoiled if he had been brought up in a household composed exclusively of womenkind, but nothing could take the spirit out of Robbie. He had begun to domineer over his sisters while he was still in petticoats, and now that he was promoted to sailor suits, he gave himself the airs of the master of the house! Mildred recalled the day when he had been discovered standing before a mirror, making wild slashes at his curls with a pair of cutting-out scissors. The explanation given was that some boys had dared to call him “pitty girl!” and he couldn’t “’tand it!” When his mother shed tears of mortification, Robbie hugged her with sympathetic effusion, but sturdily refused to say that he was “torry!”

A vision of the little shaggy head rose up before Mildred’s eyes: she saw the chubby face, the defiant pose of the childish figure, and stretching out her hands, sobbed forth a broken prayer.

“Oh, God! you have so many children in Heaven—so many little boys. We have only one... Don’t take Robbie!”

The morning wore away, the blazing sun of noon shone in through the open window, Mildred’s head throbbed with pain, then gradually everything seemed to sink away to an immeasurable distance, and she was lost in blessed unconsciousness.

When she awoke the church bell was chiming for afternoon service, and Miss Margaret knelt by her side, holding an open telegram in her hand.

“I opened it, darling!” she said; “I thought it would be better. It is good news, Mildred—good news! Robbie is better. The doctors think he will get well now!”

Ah! that was a happy afternoon! Mardie took Mildred in her arms and kissed and petted her to her heart’s content, then the door opened and in came old Ellen, the cook, carrying a tea-tray with freshly-made scones, a plate of raspberries from the garden, and a jug of thick, country cream. The kind old soul had been so full of sympathy that she had insisted upon carrying it up the three flights of stairs herself, although her breath was of the shortest, and she gasped and panted in alarming fashion. Mildred laughed and cried in one breath, and lay back against the cushions, drinking tea, and eating raspberries in great contentment of spirit.

“I was awfully hungry, though I didn’t know it. I feel as if I had been ill. Oh, Mardie, isn’t it a lovely feeling when the pain goes, and you can just rest and be thankful! ... It’s worse to have a pain in your mind than in your body. I feel ashamed now that I made such a fuss about staying at school—it seems such a little thing in comparison, but don’t say ‘I told you so!’ Mardie, or that will make me feel horrid again. It really is big, you know, only the other was so much bigger... Mardie, have you ever had a disappointment—as big a disappointment as mine?”

A quiver passed over Miss Margaret’s face, and for a moment she looked very sad.

“Oh, Mildred, yes!” she cried. “Everyone has, dear, but sometimes I have been discontented enough to imagine that I have had more than my share. A disappointment, indeed! dozens,—scores,—hundreds! But of course some are harder to bear than others.”

“Tell me about one now!” said Mildred, leaning back against the cushions and settling herself to listen in comfort. “Do, Mardie! I feel just in the humour to listen to a story; and I know it will be interesting if you tell it. ‘The Story of a Disappointment!’ Something exciting that happened to you when you were young. Now then, go along! Begin at once!”

Mardie laughed, and then pretended to look indignant.

“When I was young, indeed! What do you call me now? When you are my age you will be very indignant if anyone calls you old. Well now, let me see! I’ll tell you the story of a disappointment which happened to—well—not exactly to me, but to a very great friend whom I had known