“Oh no, I mustn’t,” said Jeanie.  “Father will never let any of us go to bed till the day’s work is done.”

“But surely, when you’re really tired—­” began Mrs. Denys.

But Jeanie shook her head.  “No; thank you very much, I must do it.  Olive did hers long ago.”

“Where is Olive?” asked Mrs. Denys.

“She’s reading a story-book downstairs.  We may always read when we’ve finished our lessons.”  Again came that short, unconscious sigh.  Jeanie went to the table and sat down.  “Mother is rather upset to-night,” she said, as she turned the leaves of her book.  “Ronald and Julian have been smoking, and she is so afraid that Father will find out.  I hope he won’t—­for her sake.  But if they don’t eat any supper, he is sure to notice.  He flogged Julian two nights running the last time because he told a lie about it.”

A quick remark rose to her listener’s lips, but it was suppressed unuttered.  Mrs. Denys began to stitch very rapidly with her face bent over her work.  It was a very charming face, with level grey eyes, wide apart, and a mouth of great sweetness.  There was a fugitive dimple on one side of it that gave her a girlish appearance when she smiled.  But she was not a girl.  There was about her an air of quiet confidence as of one who knew something of the world and its ways.  She was young still, and it was yet in her to be ardent; but she had none of the giddy restlessness of youth.  Avery Denys was a woman who had left her girlhood wholly behind her.  Her enthusiasms and her impulses were kindled at a steadier flame than the flickering torch of youth.  There was no romance left in her life, but yet was she without bitterness.  She had known suffering and faced it unblanching.  The only mark it had left upon her was that air of womanly knowledge that clothed her like a garment even in her lightest moods.  Of a quick understanding and yet quicker sympathy, she had learned to hold her emotions in check, and the natural gaiety of her hid much that was too sacred to be carelessly displayed.  She had a ready sense of humour that had buoyed her up through many a storm, and the brave heart behind it never flinched from disaster.  As her father had said of her in the long-ago days of happiness and prosperity, she took her hedges straight.

For several minutes after Jeanie’s weary little confidence, she worked in silence; then suddenly, with needle poised, she looked across at the child.

Jeanie’s head was bent over her exercise-book.  Her hair lay in a heavy mass all about her shoulders.  There was a worried frown between her brows.  Slowly her hand travelled across the page, paused, wrote a word or two, paused again.

Suddenly from the room above them there came the shrill shriek of a violin.  It wailed itself into silence, and then broke forth again in a series of long drawn-out whines.  Jeanie sighed.

Avery laid down her work with quiet decision, and went to her side.  “What is worrying you, dear?” she asked gently.  “I’m not a great French scholar, but I think I may be able to help.”