"I know, child, I know," granny answered, almost sadly. "I scarcely expected to be able to have you." And Audrey, feeling a little uncomfortable lest she should have even suspected her changed feelings, had again been struck by her aged and fragile look, the weariness in her eyes, and in her voice, and had been troubled by it.
It had troubled her, too, ever since, but she did not know what she could do. Indeed, she knew that she could not do anything, and that was saddest of all.
Up on the moor she threw herself down on a bed of heather, and with only the bees, and the larks, and the little westerly breeze for company, tried to think the matter out. And soon the breeze blew some of her worries away, and the sun and the birds' songs between them so raised her spirits that she found courage to face things more hopefully and trustfully. "I can't alter things," she sighed, "I can only do the best I know, or what seems best."
Presently remembrance of her play came back to her. For the last week or two she had been so busy, and her mind so occupied with other things, she had really not had time to worry about it, and now: "There are only three days more to wait!" she cried. "Only three days more. I wonder how I shall first know? Will they write? or shall I see it in the papers? or—or what? And how shall I bear it—if—if, whichever way it is?"
But, in spite of herself, her mind wandered on, picturing what she would do with her money. Should she send away for one of those pretty, cool, cotton rest-gowns for her mother, that she longed so for. They were often advertised, it would be quite easy to get one. She would still have a good deal left for other things. Or should she give the money to her father for a new great coat? His old one was fearfully shabby. It would take the whole of her money, but it would be lovely when winter came, to know that he was not cold. Oh! but she did want to get some new curtains, or sheets, and—and Faith was dreadfully in need of a rain coat, and: "Oh, dear!" she cried, rousing out of her day-dream, "and, after all, I shall probably not even have a five-shilling consolation prize! How silly I am to let myself think of it. It is enough to prevent its coming."
She got on to her feet, and shook herself, to shake the dried grass and heather from her skirt and her long hair—to shake off her foolishness too. Well, five shillings would be useful. It would buy mother some fruit, and wool for socks for father. "I wish though I could forget all about it. I wish something would happen to drive it out of my head again." And already something was happening—was on its way to her.
A letter had come for her while she was out, a letter from Irene.
"I can see that it is from Ilfracombe," said her mother as she handed it to her. "Open it quickly, dear, I have been longing for you to come home and tell me what it says about them all."
But Audrey's eyes were already devouring the pages. "Oh!" she gasped, "oh, how lovely! How perfectly lovely!"
If there is one thing more aggravating than another, it is to hear someone exclaiming over a letter, without giving a clue as to the cause of the excitement.