"It isn't feasible," said Chris briskly. "We never have been able to afford the luxury of paying visits, have we, Barbara?"
"I wish you could go, but I don't see how it could be managed."
Barbara looked wistfully at her younger sister as she spoke.
Michael glanced at both his sisters; then slowly put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and tossed across a little crisp crackling piece of paper to Chris. "If that will help you to go, I shall never miss it nor you either; it's the price of that acre of hay in the bottom meadow. I sold it straight away to Tom Barton the other day."
Chris looked at the five-pound note, then flipped it back at her brother with her finger.
"Thank you," she said laughing; "but it isn't a question of money, exactly. No, I must write her a civil little note as I generally do."
Jean said no more, but after breakfast, got hold of Barbara alone.
"I wish you would make Chris go," she urged. "She never seems to have any pleasure. It is such a chance for her. What is the difficulty?"
Barbara hesitated.
"We cannot spare her," she said. "Chris does so much about the farm, her fowls, the dairy, the pigs,—everything she sees to. I have as much as I can get through, with the cooking, and mending, and cleaning. I would willingly do her work if I could, but it is more than one pair of hands can do."