must come to Redford soon, Molly--or somewhere out of this--when you
feel better and able. You shall have rooms entirely to yourself, and
needn't see anybody. I will come tomorrow, and you must let me talk to
you about it."

Mrs Goldsworthy was stooping to sweep a sprinkle of ashes out of the
fender--she was like an old maid in her faddy tidiness--and when she
turned, her face was working as if to repress tears. Deb caught her up,
a moan bursting from her lips.

"Oh, what a brute I am! when you--poor, poor old girl!--have to
finish it alone. But, darling, after all, you have had the good years--
a child of your own--a home; we shall get only the dregs at the bottom
of the cup. So it is not so very unfair, is it?" Then Mary's pent
emotion issued in a laugh. With her face on her sister's shoulder, she
tried herself to silence it.

"I can't help it," she apologised. "I would if I could. Debbie, don't
go! Oh, my dear, don't think I envy you! Don't go yet! I want to tell
you something. I may never have another chance." "Of course I won't go
--I want to stay," said Deb at once.

And she stayed. The coachman was dismissed to get his meal, and
instructed to telephone to Bob to do the same. The sisters had a little
picnic dinner by themselves, washing up their plates and dishes in the
neat kitchen, Deb insisting upon taking part in the performance, and
sat long by the fireside afterwards. Fortunately, although the season
was late spring, it was a cold day; for the clear red fire was
the one bit of brightness to charm a visitor to that poor house. It
crackled cosily, toasting their toes outstretched upon the fender-bar,