“Sleep!” Avery almost laughed, and then again those burning, blinding tears rushed to her eyes.  “Oh, you don’t know what I’ve been through!” she sobbed.  “You don’t know!  You don’t know!”

“God knows, darling,” whispered Mrs. Lorimer.

Minutes later, when Avery was lying back exhausted, no longer sobbing, only dumbly weeping, there came a gentle knock at the door.

Mrs. Lorimer went to it quickly, and met her eldest daughter upon the point of entering.  Jeanie looked up at her enquiringly.

“Is anyone here?”

“Yes, dear.  Avery is here.  She isn’t very well this morning.  Run and fetch her a glass of milk!”

Jeanie hastened away.  Mrs. Lorimer returned to Avery.

“My darling,” she said, “do you know I think I can see a way to help you?”

Avery’s eyes were closed.  She put out a trembling hand.  “You are very good to me.”

“I wonder how often I have had reason to say that to you,” said Mrs. Lorimer softly.  “Listen, darling!  You must go back.  Yes, Avery, you must!  You must!  But—­you shall take my little Jeanie with you.”

Avery’s eyes opened.  Mrs. Lorimer was looking at her with tears in her own.

“I know I may trust her to you,” she said.  “But oh, you will take care of her!  Remember how precious she is—­and how fragile!”

“But, my dear—­you couldn’t spare her!” Avery said.

“Yes, I can,—­I will!” Mrs. Lorimer hastily rubbed her eyes and smiled—­a resolute smile.  “You may have her, dear.  I know she will be happy with you.  And Piers is so fond of her too.  She will be a comfort to you—­to you both, please God.  She comforts everyone—­my little Jeanie.  It seems to be her role in life.  Ah, here she comes!  You shall tell her, dear.  It will come better from you.”

“May I come in?” said Jeanie at the door.

Her mother went to admit her.  Avery sat up, and pushed her chair back against the window-curtain.

Jeanie entered, a glass of milk in one hand and a plate in the other.  “Good morning, dear Avery!” she said, in her gentle, rather tired voice.  “I’ve brought you a hot cake too—­straight out of the oven.  It smells quite good.”  She came to Avery’s side, and stood within the circle of her arm; but she did not kiss her or look into her piteous, tearstained face.  “I hope you like currants,” she said.  “Baby Phil calls them flies.  Have you seen Baby Phil lately?  He has just cut another tooth.  He likes everybody to look at it.”

“I must see it presently,” Avery said, with an effort.

She drank the milk, and broke the cake, still holding Jeanie pressed to her side.

Jeanie, gravely practical, held the plate.  “I saw Piers ride by a little while ago,” she remarked.  “He was on Pompey.  But he was going so fast he didn’t see me.  He always rides fast, doesn’t he?  But I think Pompey likes it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”  There was an odd frozen note in Avery’s voice.  “He has to go—­whether he likes it or not.”