She had almost finished when the door opened to admit a little, grey
wisp of a woman with a mild white face and large faded eyes which might
once have been beautiful. She was dressed entirely in lavender, a
fondness for this colour being one of the many harmless fancies born of
a brain not quite normal. The rather expressionless face brightened at
sight of the girl by the table.

"Why, Esther--I didn't hear you come in. Have you put a mat under the
bowl? See now! You have marked the table."

Esther good humouredly reached for a table-mat, for the polish of this
particular article of furniture was the pride of Aunt Amy's life. "It's
all right, Auntie. It's not really a mark. Look, aren't they sweet? It
is like one of father's posies. Is mother any better?"

"The children must think a lot of you, Esther!"

"Yes, although I think they would bring flowers to any one, bless 'em!
Is mother--"

"Your mother hasn't been down all day. I went up with her dinner but she
didn't take any. She wouldn't answer."

"Auntie, don't you think she ought to do something about these
headaches?"

"I don't know, Esther. She'll be all right to-morrow. She always is."

"Yes. But they are getting more frequent, and you know--she is so
different. She can't be well. Haven't you noticed it?"