and father--and home....

* * * * *

Later on, that evening, when she knelt by Roy's bed for good-night talk
and prayer, his arms round her neck, his cool cheek against hers, the
rebellion she could not altogether stifle surged up in her afresh. But
she said not a word.

It was Roy who spoke, as if he had read her heart.

"Mummy, Aunt Jane's been talking to Daddy again about school. Oh, I do
_hate_ her!" (This in fervent parenthesis.)

She only tightened her hold and felt a small quiver run through him.

"Will it be fearfully soon? Has Daddy told you?"

"Yes, my darling. But not too fearfully soon, because he knows I don't
wish that."

"When?"

"Not till next year, in the autumn. September."

"Oh, you good--_goodest_ Mummy!"

He clutched her in an ecstasy of relief. For him a year's respite was a
lifetime. For her it would pass like a watch in the night.