pretty mad that 'e'd come too late. I weren't sorry myself," she
asserted boldly. "For I'd 'oped against 'ope after 'is last visit that
'e'd never see pore mother again alive. I couldn't 'a' stood it! There,
I just couldn't."

Quite unexpectedly Mrs. Briggs suddenly broke down and dropped into a
chair. Violet sprang to comfort, while Olga took possession of the
rolling-pin and continued the pastry-making with deft hands.

After an interval poor Mrs. Briggs managed to recover somewhat of the
hard demeanour that usually characterized her. "I've no call to fret,"
she said. "And don't you go rubbin' my dirty face with your clean
'andkerchief, Miss Violet. I ain't fit for you to touch, my dear."

"I'm only trying to get off the flour," explained Violet. "But I'm
afraid you'll have to wash it after all. It's all gone into paste."

"And there's Miss Olga a-makin' my tarts for me like a ministerin'
angel," said Mrs. Briggs, with a watery smile. "It's a pity you couldn't
'a' seen 'er in 'er coffin; for it was a beautiful coffin. Briggs said
it was as fine a one as 'e'd seen. Well, well! She's gone, pore soul.
And now you young ladies must try some of my rhubarb wine."

She rose briskly, and went to a cupboard. "We drank some of it at the
funeral," she said. "And everyone liked it--even Briggs. But I thought
I'd save the rest for when you came. Miss Olga always likes my rhubarb
wine."

The rhubarb wine proved at least a welcome distraction, and under its
genial influence Mrs. Briggs's spirits rose. She was quite cheery by the