CHAPTER XVI.

A year had passed since Granny Carlyle went to her rest and Audrey returned to the Vicarage to take up her duties there again.

Another summer has come and gone, for it is September now, but a September so warm and sunny and beautiful that, if it were not for the changing tints on the trees, one might well imagine it was still June.

In the Vicarage garden the 'herb bed' had developed into a handsome herbaceous border, varied by patches here and there of feathery parsley, a bush of sage, a clump of lemon-thyme, and mint. Job Toms had retired again to his kitchen-garden, for "he didn't hold with messing up flowers and herbs together, and nothing wasn't going to make him believe but what planting poppies next to parsley was bad for the parsley. Poppies was p'ison, so he'd been always led to believe, and he didn't believe in p'isonous things being planted 'mongst what folks was asked to eat."

So Audrey and Faith and the children had taken the beds in their charge, and in aiming at showing Job what a beautiful, if not useful, thing a herbaceous border could be, they had laboured hard, and were now reaping their reward.

Occasionally, as a great favour, the old man could be coaxed into cutting the grass—as to-day, for instance, which was a great day in the family history, for it was Mrs. Carlyle's birthday; and not only that, but she was to go to the Mill House to tea. Her first real 'outing' for two long years at least.

To her husband and children, and even to Mary and Job, to have 'mother' about amongst them again was a cause for such rejoicing that they hardly knew how to express it.

Early in the morning Debby and Tom were up and knocking at Miss Babbs's shop door before Miss Babbs was fully dressed or had raked the ashes out of her kitchen stove.

"Why, Master Tom," she cried, somewhat ruffled by the importunate hammering on her new paint. "Shops ain't supposed to be open till the shutters is down."

"I will take them down for you," offered Tom, blandly.

"I don't want them took down yet, thank you, sir. Why I haven't had time even to light my kitchen fire yet——"

"I'll light your kitchen fire, Babbs dear," said Debby, quite undisturbed by Miss Babbs's wrath. "I'll have it burning like anything by the time you've got your hair on."

Miss Babbs backed away into the dark shop. "I don't want any help, thank you, Miss Deborah," she said, stiffly. "If you'll come again in an hour's time, when the shop is open, I'll be ready to serve you."

"Babby dear, don't be cross," pleaded Deborah. "It's mother's birthday, and we want some flags to decorate the garden, 'cause she's coming out to-day for the first time."

Debby's tone was pathetic in the extreme. Her expression and her words went straight to Miss Babbs's heart, and brought the tears to her eyes. "Oh, my dear children, you don't say so! Oh, I am glad! Whoever'd have thought it. Come right in—not that I believe I've a flag left, unless 'tis Coronation ones. Come in and shut the door, Master Tom. We don't want all Moor End dropping in, before I'm dressed for the day, and my place tidy. No, never mind the shutters, Master Tom, we'll leave them up for a bit. I'll carry the box into the parlour for you, and you can turn it out for yourselves, while I light my fire, or I shall be I don't know where all day."

Tom and Debby, expressing their thanks as they went, groped their way delightedly past barrels of potatoes, soap-boxes, and goods of many kinds. The sacks looked quite alarming in the dimness, the barrels as though they might have held all manner of mysterious dangers. The air was heavy with the mingled smell of onions, bacon, scented soap, leather, and groceries.

"Oh, I must keep a shop when I grow up," whispered Debby. "Miss Babbs, when you retire will you sell your business to me? I've got three pounds in the bank already, and I'll save every penny,"—but her plans came to an end in a hamper, into which she plunged head first.

"Babbs isn't going to retire," grunted Tom, as he dragged his sister out. "Don't talk rubbish, Deb."

Miss Babbs staggered out into the light parlour with a large wooden box, and dumped it down on the table before her customers. "There's bandana handkerchiefs on top," she panted, "but there may be a flag or so under."

"The quickest way will be to turn the box upside down, and begin at the bottom," suggested Tom, as soon as Miss Babbs had retired to her kitchen— and suited the action to the word.

"Here's one!" cried Debby eagerly, and unfolded a flag with 'God Save our King and Queen' on it, and portraits of their Majesties.

"And here's one of 'God Bless our Sunday School,'" cried Tom. "Oh, look, there are three of them. If we nail them upside down they will look all right. They'll be flags, anyhow."

"It's an insult to hang a flag upside down," corrected Debby, severely.

"All right, I don't mind. Here's a Union Jack, that's jolly, though they are rather a worry to hang. I never can remember which way they should go. Not that anyone in Moor End would know if they were right way up or not."

"Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," retorted Debby, "and it's time they were taught." She had lately been reading an article on the subject and her opinions were very strong with regard to the ignorance shown by so many. "One Coronation, one Union Jack," she counted, "three Sunday School—that's five altogether. We ought to have one more to make the money up to sixpence. I'll have a red and white handkerchief, it will come in afterwards for Jobey for Christmas."

When, by and by, Mrs. Carlyle passed downstairs to go out through the garden to the carriage Mr. Vivian had sent to drive her to the Mill House, she found the banisters festooned with rings of coloured paper, and the garden ablaze with paper roses and flags. From every tree fluttered a flag, more or less inappropriate, and on every bush and plant, poppy and rose, sage and phlox, laurel and sweet briar, blossomed roses of a size and colour to make a florist's heart rejoice—had they been real. Suspended across the gateway hung an old white sheet, with 'Many happy returns,' in red letters, sewn on crookedly.

Smiles and tears fought for mastery in her heart. "It is all meant for you, mummy," explained Debby, eagerly. "You must pretend what is on the Coronation flag is 'God save our Mother,' and on the Sunday School ones 'God bless our Mother.' Can you pretend like that, mummy? I can."

"Yes, darling, for it is no pretence. He has saved me, and blessed me," she said softly.

The carriage was to drive slowly through the village that the heroine of the day might see it all again, and note all the changes which had taken place during her long seclusion. Joan was to go with her to share the novelty of a drive. But the other four and their father formed a guard of honour, and marched beside them, or behind. Mary was to share in the outing too. As soon as she had tidied herself and put things straight, she was to hand the care of the house over to Job Toms, and go to the Mill House as early as she could, which was only a few minutes later than her mistress.

The slow drive turned into a veritable triumphal progress. Everyone rejoiced to see the Vicar's wife amongst them again, every heart in the village shared in the joy of the Vicar and his family. Miss Babbs was out at her shop door, waving her best lace handkerchief. The old sexton's wife ran into the road in order to present a bunch of the best flowers in her garden. All stood out at their doors with welcoming smiles and glad greetings.

By the time they reached the Mill House, Mrs. Carlyle was almost borne down with the weight of love and tenderness which had been poured out upon her—but, oh! so happy, so glad, so grateful.

At the Mill House, where all were out awaiting her. Mrs. Vivian soon carried her off to her own little room. "You are to rest here quite alone," she said firmly. "I shall not allow anyone to see you for half an hour—unless, perhaps, it is your husband or Audrey."

Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her with grateful eyes, and a brave smile on her pale, happy face. "You understand," she said gently. "I would like to be quite alone just for a little. Oh, I feel so—unworthy, and so—so rich beyond my deserts. I must ask for help to—to try to merit some of all I have."

Downstairs in the long low dining-room, the table was prepared for tea. Daphne had decorated room and table with autumn leaves, and ferns, and flowers. In the centre stood a handsome birthday cake of Irene's making and decorating, and surrounding it was dish after dish of tartlets, and cakes, and other things such as made the children gaze at the clock anxiously, fully assured that it had stopped.

"It must be five o'clock, or six," sighed Tom. "I am sure it is three or four hours since dinner-time."

"I didn't eat any dinner," announced Daphne, "when I saw what Irene had made, I thought I would wait. You see, it was a boiled mutton dinner, and I can't bear boiled mutton."

"Some of the things you saw are for supper," laughed Irene, "so I am afraid you have a long time to wait yet."

Daphne's face fell. "Four hours more! Never mind, I don't want the time to hurry past—though it will."

Faith, the same happy, bright-faced Faith, strolled up to the window, one hand tucked affectionately through old Mr. Vivian's arm, the other leading Joan. In the sunshine her hair glowed like a halo round her head; on the bosom of her white dress glowed her ruby cross. Her frock was only of the cheapest soft muslin, but it was sound and neat, her shoes had all their buttons on, her stockings were guiltless of darns of another colour. In her pretty brown eyes love beamed on all, and happiness.

"Who would like a donkey ride?" called out Mr. Vivian. "Tom, Daphne, are you coming? Debby, where's my little Debby?"

Debby was never far from Tom, nor from Mr. Vivian when she could be with him.

"Audrey, are you coming too?"

"I don't know," said Audrey, smiling. "I want to go with you, and I want to be here in case mother needs me."

"And I want you," said Irene, in the midst of bustling round. "I want you very particularly."

"The truth is," said Mr. Vivian, his kind old eyes resting on her very tenderly, "we all need you. We can't get on without you. Never mind, wait for your mother, child. She needs you most of all." And with a wave of the hand they left.

Audrey went outside and rested on a seat in the sunshine. On the roof Keith's pigeons sat cooing amiably; the mingled sweetness of 'cherry-pie' and mignonette filled the warm air. Daphne's cat Snowdrop, once Debby's kitten, lay stretched out comfortably on the warm, red-tiled path.

How beautiful it all was, how peaceful. Audrey sitting lost in almost a rapture of enjoyment, did not hear soft footsteps approaching, until Irene dropped on to the seat beside her.

"Audrey," she said eagerly, "I do want a few minutes alone with you. There is something—very special—I want to talk to you about."

Audrey looked round interestedly. "Well?" she said. "You know Christmas is not so very far off."

Audrey laughed lightly. "Christmas! Just imagine being able to think of Christmas—winter—on a day like this!"

"I am not thinking of winter, only of Christmas—and our party."

"A Christmas party? Oh, Irene!"

"Yes. I must tell you quickly, or someone may come. Mother suggested it only this morning—that we have a party, and—and act your play!"

Irene looked at her triumphantly, her pretty eyes bright with excitement.

"My play? Oh!" Audrey blushed scarlet. She seemed quite overcome.

"Irene, Irene," called her mother from within the house, and Irene sprang to her feet. "Think about it," she said, lightly touching Audrey's hot cheek with her finger, "think of the fun of the rehearsals, and all the rest."

"Think about it!" There was little need to tell Audrey to do that. She thought and thought, and at first she felt she could never face it all; then, by degrees, the idea grew less distasteful, more pleasant, then at last she laughed.

"A penny for your thoughts, Audrey," a sweet soft voice broke the silence, and brought Audrey back from a happy future to the blissful present. Looking up she saw her mother leaning on Irene's arm.

"I couldn't sell them," she said, laughing and springing to her feet, "they were too, too lovely, but not nearly as lovely, mother, as seeing you here and walking about."

Mrs. Carlyle sank on to the seat with a happy sigh. "I can hardly believe I am myself," she said, smiling. "I am almost afraid I shall wake up and find it is all a dream—as I have done so often."

"Oh, this is no dream," laughed Irene, "it is all very real. Look at those bad sparrows, fighting over a piece of bread. Listen to the pigeons calling for their tea, and look at my bed of verbenas, all raised from seeds by my very own hand. It is only Audrey who dreams. Audrey, will you give us your thoughts, as they are not to be bought?"

"Yes," said Audrey, her grey eyes shining bright with happiness. "I am thinking that in all the world there is nothing so beautiful as home, no happiness so great as——"

"As that which comes from helping others," said Mrs. Carlyle softly, and drawing her dearly loved daughter to her. "Oh, my dear, how blessed I am in my children, and in their friends;—my children too," she added softly, as she drew Irene to her, and kissed first one and then the other.

Mrs. Vivian came to the door and looked out, smiling at them.

"Will you come now? Tea is ready," she called cheerfully. And, with one supporting her on either side, Mrs. Carlyle went in to the house to cut her birthday cake.

THE END.