“But I can’t!” declared Julian.

“Yes, you can,—­you must!  You too, Ronald!  Where are your coats?  Pop them on and make a dash for it!  You’ll come back better.  Perhaps you will get out of the swishing after all.”

Julian turned his head and looked at her by the light of the flaring, unshaded gas-jet.  “By Jove!” he said.  “You’re rather a brick, Mrs. Denys.”

“Don’t stop to talk!” she commanded.  “Just get up and do as I say.  Go down the back stairs, mind!  I’ll let you in again in time to get ready for supper.”

Julian turned to his brother.  “What do you say to it, Ron?”

“Can’t be done,” groaned Ronald.

“Oh yes, it can.”  Sheer determination sounded in Avery’s response.  “Get up, both of you!  If it makes you ill, it can’t be helped.  You will neither of you get any better lying here.  Come, Ronald!” She went to him briskly.  “Get up!  I’ll help you.  There!  That’s the way.  Splendid!  Now keep it up! don’t let yourself go again!  You will feel quite different when you get out into the open air.”

By words and actions she urged them, Mrs. Lorimer standing pathetically by, till finally, fired by her energy, the two miscreants actually managed to make their escape without mishap.

She ran downstairs to see them go, returning in time to receive the wailing Pat who had been sent to bed in a state verging on hysterics.  Neither she nor his mother could calm him for some time, and when at length he was somewhat comforted one of the younger boys fell down in an adjacent room and began to cry lustily.

Avery went to the rescue, earnestly entreating Mrs. Lorimer to go down to her room and rest.  She was able to soothe the sufferer and leave him to the care of the nurse, and she then followed Mrs. Lorimer whom she found bathing her eyes and trying not to cry.

So piteous a spectacle was she that Avery found further formality an absolute impossibility.  She put her arm round the little woman and begged her not to fret.

“No, I know it’s wrong,” whispered Mrs. Lorimer, yielding like a child to the kindly support.  “But I can’t help it sometimes.  You see, I’m not very strong—­just now.”  She hesitated and glanced at Avery with a guilty air.  “I—­I haven’t told him yet,” she said in a lower whisper still.  “Of course I shall have to soon; but—­I’m afraid you will think me very deceitful—­I like to choose a favourable time, when the children are not worrying him quite so much.  I don’t want to—­to vex him more than I need.”

“My dear!” Avery said compassionately.  And she added as she had added to the daughter half an hour before, “Poor little thing!”

Mrs. Lorimer gave a feeble laugh, lifting her face.  “You are a sweet girl, Avery.  I may call you that?  I do hope the work won’t be too much for you.  You mustn’t let me lean on you too hard.”

“You shall lean just as hard as you like,” Avery said, and, bending, kissed the tired face.  “I am here to be a help to you, you know.  Yes, do call me Avery!  I’m quite alone in the world, and it makes it feel like home.  Now you really must lie down till supper.  And you are not to worry about anything.  I am sure the boys will come back much better.  There!  Is that comfortable?”