Dusk had fallen before Rhoda got back to Acacia Road. The omnibus stopped at the corner, and as she went down the dreary street carrying a big bunch of flowers from the old garden, she might have come straight from Arcady, so bright her face was. Mrs. M’Alister was watching for her from the window with the boys, and they were all at the door to meet her.

“My dear, I was getting anxious about you,” said Mrs. M’Alister, as they went into the sitting-room, Rhoda holding little Willie in her arms. “You are much later than you expected.”

“Miss Merivale begged me to stay. Oh, Aunt Mary, she has been so kind! But I will tell you all about it presently. How tired you look, Aunt Mary! Jack and Willie, I hope you have been good?”

“They have been very good,” said Mrs. M’Alister hastily. “I have been trying to get my work finished. Give me your hat and jacket, darling; Jack shall take them upstairs for you. You have had a long day. How beautiful those flowers are! They scent the room already. English flowers are sweeter than our flowers used to be. But we had a lovely garden, hadn’t we?” She was speaking very nervously, and she kissed Rhoda again as she took her hat and jacket from her. “I am so glad Miss Merivale was so kind, dear.”

“Oh, she was wonderfully kind. And she has given me some more programmes to do. I am to take them to her on Thursday.”

“That will be another nice change for you, dear. You look all the better for a breath of country air,” was Mrs. M’Alister’s nervously-spoken answer.

“Uncle James says we are all to live in the country with him,” broke in Jack, who had been watching for an opportunity to make his voice heard. “And we shall have cream every day, and see the pigs fed.”

“Uncle James?” said Rhoda, looking at Mrs. M’Alister. A little shadow had fallen on her face. Mrs. M’Alister’s elder brother had been the only person who had ever made her feel that she was an outsider and had no real claim to the place she held in the family.

Mrs. M’Alister’s anxious face had clouded over too. “My dear, I did not want to speak of it till after tea. James is coming in again this evening, when Ned is home. Jack and Willie, run and ask Mrs. Ellis if the kettle is boiling yet. Rhoda will want some tea.”

“I had tea before I came away,” Rhoda said, as the boys ran off. “When did Uncle James come, Aunt Mary?”

“This afternoon, dear. He got to London last night. And he went down to the works this morning, and saw Ned and Mr. Howard. Oh, Rhoda, they want Ned to go to Plymouth!”

Rhoda looked at her aunt. She understood now what those new lines of anxiety in her face meant which she had noticed the moment she came in. “To Plymouth, Aunt Mary? But that is a long way off.”

“They have a branch there, and they want Ned to go. James says it is a splendid thing for him. And he wants me to go down there and live with him, Rhoda. His farm is only three miles from Plymouth.”

She did not look at Rhoda as she spoke, but kept fingering the tablecloth nervously, with her eyes cast down. For a few seconds Rhoda was silent. Then her voice was very cheerful. “Why, you will be quite close to Ned, Aunt Mary. And the country air will be so good for the boys. I think it is a splendid plan.”

Mrs. M’Alister gave her a piteous glance. “If only you could go too, Rhoda darling. But James says”—

“How could I get work in the country, Aunt Mary? And Miss Merivale has promised that she will get me plenty of work.” Rhoda’s lips quivered a little as she thought of her day-dreams as she came home—how if she got plenty of work they might take a little house and have a little garden of their own. But she went bravely on. “It would be foolish of me to think of leaving London, Aunt Mary. And of course you must go with Ned. Is he pleased about it? They must think a good deal of him to promote him like this.”

“Yes, it is a promotion,” said the mother eagerly. She was very fond of Rhoda, but her eldest boy was her heart’s darling. “James said Mr. Howard spoke so highly of him. And James is very anxious I should go to Coombe. His old housekeeper is leaving him, and he wants me. If only”—

But Rhoda again interrupted her. She knew perfectly well how reasonably and firmly the shrewd, hard-headed farmer had spoken that afternoon. He was both anxious and willing that his sister and her boys should make their home with him, but he did not want her. He considered her old enough to fight the battle of life for herself. And she was determined that her aunt should not guess how hard the parting would be to her.

“It is a delightful plan, Aunt Mary. You would not have come to London if Ned wasn’t here. I know how you have hated it. And you must not trouble about me. There are heaps of places now where girls can live comfortably for very little. I will ask Miss Desborough to-morrow. And if I can pass the Post Office examination, I might get appointed to Plymouth. Aunt Mary, don’t cry. I can’t bear it.”

“You don’t feel it as I shall,” sobbed Mrs. M’Alister, without looking up. “But I couldn’t let Ned go to Plymouth alone, Rhoda. I couldn’t be parted from him.”

“Of course not,” Rhoda answered cheerily. She was glad her aunt did not look up, for she knew her face had turned very white, and slow hot tears had forced themselves into her eyes. But her voice was cheery. “And you will be quite close to him at Coombe.”

“He will be able to live with us. There is a station quite close,” said Mrs. M’Alister, drying her tears. Now that Rhoda seemed to bear the news so well, she was able to think of the bright side of things. “And you must spend a long month with us in the summer, Rhoda darling. James means to insist on that. He does mean to be kind, dear.”

“I am sure he does. And when he hears about Miss Merivale he will make you see that it would be foolish of me to think of leaving London. But here comes the tea at last. I will run up and wash my hands first. Don’t wait for me, Aunt Mary.”

No one could have guessed, when Rhoda came down, with her hair freshly done, and a new pink ribbon round the neck of her brown dress, what bitter tears she had been shedding upstairs. And when Mr. Price came in, he was pleasantly surprised at the sensible view she took of things, and his invitation to her to spend the August holidays at Coombe was far heartier than Mrs. M’Alister had dared to hope for.

“And you will be able to run down to Leyton for a Sunday every now and then,” he said, regarding her approvingly out of his hard grey eyes. “Mary, here, seems to think you’re a baby still, but I know better. Girls aren’t what they used to be, Mary—silly creatures who couldn’t look after themselves. They don’t want to stay at home by the chimney corner all the time.”

“I want to work,” said Rhoda, speaking rather proudly. She could have added that she might have got work at Plymouth and come home every night, as Ned was going to do, but she knew that it would be no use to say it. He had plainly made up his mind that she must shift for herself. And the only excuse she could make for him was that he did not know how hard it was for her to be suddenly deprived of a home. Shabby and uncomfortable as their lodgings were, not even beautiful Woodcote could have been a dearer home. And a deadly chill seized her heart as she thought of living alone or with strangers. Rhoda was a thorough woman in her need of a home to fill her life. She had never felt Rose’s desire to be free from home ties; she could not have understood it.

“Rhoda means to ask Miss Desborough’s advice, James,” said Mrs. M’Alister, putting down her sewing. “She knows a great many girls who get their living in London and board out somewhere. I shan’t feel happy till I see Rhoda comfortably settled.”

“Oh, we’ll manage that for her,” returned the farmer briskly. “And now this Miss Merivale has taken her up she’ll get plenty of work, never fear.”

“How would it do for you to live with Miss Smythe?” suggested Mrs. M’Alister, looking anxiously at Rhoda. “Now Miss Desborough is going away, she will want somebody, won’t she?”

A smile broke over Rhoda’s face. She had never spoken of Pauline’s contemptuous rudeness to her aunt. She had felt too indifferent to her to be hurt by her behaviour; and since her visit to Leyton, the week before, she had a special reason for being amused at it. But this she had not mentioned.

“Miss Smythe would think me very bold if I suggested living with her, Aunt Mary,” she said, in a voice that had a ripple of laughter in it. “But don’t be anxious about me. I can stay here with Mrs. Ellis if I can’t hear of anything I like better. But I will speak to Miss Desborough to-morrow.”

As it happened, however, Rhoda did not see Clare next day. When she arrived at the flat, she found that Lady Desborough had reached town the day before, and had taken her daughter for a day’s shopping with her, preparatory to their journey into Lincolnshire.

It was Rose who told Rhoda this. Mrs. Richards had gone out to buy some chops for dinner, and Rose opened the door. Rhoda thought her the prettiest creature she had ever seen in her life. She had a blue dress on and a white cooking apron, and her yellow hair was brushed loosely back from her face and fastened in a loose knot.

“Miss Desborough has left some letters for you to answer,” she said to Rhoda pleasantly. “Can you do them at the side table? I am cooking in the sitting-room this morning. It was so hot in the kitchen. Miss Smythe will be in presently. She has a message for you from Clare.”

It was rather difficult to work at the side table, which was small and decidedly rickety; but Rhoda made no objection. She found her eyes wandering now and then to Rose, who had gone back to her pastry, and was spending many puzzled glances on the cookery book that was propped open before her.

“I mean to write a cookery book one day,” she exclaimed presently, in a tone of deep disgust. “And I mean to use simple language, and explain everything. I can’t understand this book a bit.”

Rhoda was on the point of offering her help, when the door was hastily opened and Pauline came in, with a bunch of daffodils in her hand. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of the pastry board.

“My darling Rose! Suppose Lady Desborough were to come back with Clare, what would she think?”

“It was so hot in the kitchen, Pauline,” Rose answered meekly. “And I do so want to learn how to cook. Mrs. Richards’ pastry is like leather. Just look here. This book says”—

But Pauline laughingly put it from her. “My dear child, it is worse than Greek to me. And I really do object to see lumps of raw dough about. Please take them away. I never like to think of my food till I see it on the table. Good-morning, Miss Sampson. When you have finished those letters you will not be required any more. I will pay you before you go. Miss Desborough has gone out with Lady Desborough.”

Clare had left a kind message for Rhoda, and when Pauline went into the next room to take off her hat, Rose hastened to give it.

“She was so sorry not to be here to say good-bye to you, Miss Sampson. She feels that you have been such a help to her.”

Rhoda had listened to Pauline with a smile faintly lurking at the corner of her firm lips, but now the smile flashed brightly out at Rose.

“It has been very pleasant work,” she said. “I am sorry it is over. But your aunt has promised me some more work, Miss Merivale. I am to go down to Woodcote again on Thursday.”

Rose was surprised, and she could not help showing it. “You went yesterday, didn’t you?” she said rather stiffly. “It is a long way for you to go.”

“I am very glad to go,” Rhoda answered. She did not tell Rose she had spent the day at Woodcote; something in Rose’s manner checked her. But she did not begin her writing at once. Rose had taken up the cookery book again, and was bending puzzled brows over it. Rhoda watched her for a moment, her eyes full of admiration. Miss Desborough was pretty, but there was not a soft line in her face. Rose looked a child still for all her womanly height. Rhoda said to herself that she must be much younger than her brother. It was easy to see that they were brother and sister. Rose had just the same straight brow she had noticed in him yesterday, and her eyebrows, like his, were a shade or two darker than her hair.

“Would you let me see if I could help you, Miss Merivale?” Rhoda said, after a moment. “I did all the cooking at home before we came to England.”

But Rose shut up her book. “Pauline will scold again if I don’t carry all this away,” she said, with a laugh. “And I mean to have some cookery lessons, if I can get them. But Woodcote is so far from everywhere. It is like being buried alive.”

Rhoda, who had known what it was to live for years fifty miles from a town, did not know how to answer this. And Rose, angry with herself for saying so much to Miss Sampson, caught up the pastry board and rolling-pin and retreated to the kitchen. She came back in a few moments with her apron off, and found Rhoda busy at work, and Pauline in a low chair by the fire with her hands clasped round her knees. Pauline had changed her outdoor dress for an odd, picturesque frock of sage green Liberty serge, touched with yellow. She had fastened some daffodils in her belt, and looked like an aesthetic picture of Spring.

“Arrange my daffodils for me, there is a good little Rose,” she said, smiling lazily at Rose as she entered. “The brown pots, not the blue ones. Now Clare is going to her native fens, I mean this room to be a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. How good it will be to get rid of the click of that typewriter!”

“Don’t say that to Clare,” laughed Rose, as she brought the brown pots to the table. “She was telling me this morning it was the thing she would miss most.”

Pauline lifted her dark eyebrows. “Did she really say that? But it is exactly like Clare; she is more a machine herself than a human being. I was very fond of her once, but I have found her trying to live with. They say you never know a woman till you have lived six months with her. Don’t put too many daffodils in one pot, my Rose; they want plenty of room to show themselves.”

Rhoda had finished the work Clare had left for her. She carefully put her papers together, and rose from the table. Pauline looked carelessly round at her. “Ah, are you going, Miss Sampson? Here is the money Miss Desborough left for you. Just write a receipt and leave it on the table, please. You understand that you are not wanted any more, don’t you?”

“I knew this was to be my last day, thank you,” said Rhoda composedly. She smiled to herself as she wrote her receipt. She half thought of mentioning her visit to Leyton, but she refrained. There was not a touch of spitefulness in Rhoda’s nature, and she had no wish to humiliate Pauline; but the humorous side of the situation was thoroughly enjoyed by her.

Rose went on arranging her flowers in silence for a minute or two after Rhoda went away; then she spoke rather constrainedly.

“Why do you dislike poor Miss Sampson so, Pauline? Do you know that you were quite unkind to her?”

“Was I? It is necessary to keep that sort of girl at arm’s length; she would become intolerable if you didn’t. Thank goodness, we have seen the last of her. Now, come and sit down here and have a talk. What shall we do this afternoon, Rose? Only two more days! What do you want to do most?”

“Clare and Lady Desborough are coming back to tea,” suggested Rose, with a laugh. “You are not very hospitable, Pauline. And to-morrow we shall be busy all day. My time will soon be over, won’t it? Do you know, Aunt Lucy has asked Miss Sampson down to Woodcote again to-morrow, Pauline? I wonder if she has found out that she is related to Cousin Lydia’s husband. I don’t see what Aunt Lucy can want her for.”

“Poor relations are a great nuisance,” said Pauline sharply. “It is foolish of your aunt to have anything to do with her. But don’t let us talk of Sampson, Rosie; let us talk of ourselves. Suppose for a moment that you were going to stay with me through the summer, just let us plan what we would do.”

Rose shook her head.

“It would be too tantalising, Pauline. I shall spend the summer at Woodcote. I know exactly what I shall be doing every hour of the day, and every day of the week, and every week of the month. But don’t let us talk of it. Let us talk of the concert last night. Wasn’t it wonderful? I wish Tom had been there; he would have understood better why Laura’s singing irritates me. Pauline, I must get some good music lessons somehow. Do speak to Aunt Lucy about it on Friday. You are quite right; I am wasting my time as it is.”