He stretched forth a firm, kind hand and patted his wife’s shoulder.

“We must see what we can do to bring a little colour into those pale cheeks,” he said.  “A fortnight in the Cornish Riviera perhaps.  Or we might take a peep at Shakespeare’s country.  But we shall see, we shall see!  I will write to Mrs. Denys and acquaint her with my decision this evening.”

He was gone, leaving Mrs. Lorimer to pace up and down his study in futile distress of mind.  Only that morning a letter from Avery had reached her, telling her of Jeanie’s continued progress, and urging her to come and take her place for a little while.  It was such a change as her tired soul craved, but she had not dared to tell her husband so.  And now, it seemed, Jeanie’s good time also was to be terminated.

There was no doubt about it.  Rodding did not suit the child.  She was never well at home.  The Vicarage was shut in by trees, a damp, unhealthy place.  And Dr. Tudor had told her in plain terms that Jeanie lacked the strength to make any headway there.  She was like a wilting plant in that atmosphere.  She could not thrive in it.  Dry warmth was what she needed, and it had made all the difference to her.  Avery’s letter had been full of hope.  She referred to Dr. Tudor’s simile of the building of a sea-wall.  “We are strengthening it every day,” she wrote.  “In a few more weeks it ought to be proof against any ordinary tide.”

A few more weeks!  Mrs. Lorimer wrung her hands.  Stephen did not know, did not realize; and she was powerless to convince him.  Avery would not convince him either.  He tolerated only Avery because she was so useful.

She knew exactly the sort of letter he would write, desiring their return; and Avery, for all her quiet strength, would have to submit.  Oh, it was cruel—­cruel!

The tears were coursing down her cheeks when the door opened unexpectedly and Olive entered.  She paused at sight of her mother, looking at her with just the Vicar’s air of chill enquiry.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked.

Mrs. Lorimer turned hastily to the window and began to dry her eyes.

Olive went to a bookshelf and stood before it.  After a moment she took out a book and deliberately turned we leaves.  Her attitude was plainly repressive.

Finally she returned the book to the shelf and turned.  “Why are you crying, Mother?”

Mrs. Lorimer leaned her head against the window-frame with a heavy sigh.  “I am very miserable, Olive,” she said, a catch in her voice.

“No one need be that,” observed Olive.  “Father says that misery is a sign of mental weakness.”

Mrs. Lorimer was silent.

“Don’t you think you had better leave off crying and find something to do?” suggested her daughter in her cool, young voice.

Still Mrs. Lorimer neither moved nor spoke.

Olive came a step nearer.  There was obvious distaste on her face.  “I wish you would try to be a little brighter—­for Father’s sake,” she said.  “I don’t think you treat him very kindly.”