Mrs. Lorimer leaned her head against the window-frame with a heavy sigh.
"I am very miserable, Olive," she said, a catch in her voice.
"No one need be that," observed Olive. "Father says that misery is a sign of mental weakness."
Mrs. Lorimer was silent.
"Don't you think you had better leave off crying and find something to do?" suggested her daughter in her cool, young voice.
Still Mrs. Lorimer neither moved nor spoke.
Olive came a step nearer. There was obvious distaste on her face. "I wish you would try to be a little brighter—for Father's sake," she said. "I don't think you treat him very kindly."
It was evident that she spoke from a sense of duty. Mrs. Lorimer straightened herself with another weary sigh.
"Run along, my dear!" she said. "I am sure you are busy."
Olive turned, half-vexed and half-relieved, and walked to the door. Her mother watched her wistfully. It was in her mind to call her back, fold her in her arms, and appeal for sympathy. But the severity of the child's pose was too suggestive of the Vicar's unbending attitude towards feminine weakness, and she restrained the impulse, knowing that she would appeal in vain. There was infinitely more comfort to be found in the society of Baby Phil, and, smiling wanly at the thought, she went up to the nursery in search of it.