y!" She did not again remind
Audrey of the glass of milk.

Audrey did not relish the reproach. She was always a little sore about
Faith's pre-eminence in the house. "You see it isn't my work," she said
shortly, "if it had been I expect I should not have forgotten.
It is frightfully hard to remember other people's little odds and ends of
work when they happen to be out."

"Did not Faith ask you to look after baby while she was away?"

"Yes--but----"

"Then it was your work, Audrey."

"Oh, well, I am very sorry. I quite forgot, but I expect Joan will be all
right. Now I will read to you, mother. Which hymn would you like?"

Mrs. Carlyle's mind at that moment was not in tune for any reading.
She was troubled about her baby girl, and almost more troubled about her
big girl. Her heart was heavy, her head ached, she felt tired too, and
faint.

Audrey also was out of humour with herself and everything. She was
disappointed in her mother's advice about her writing. She was angry with
herself for failing in her duty, she was nervous about Joan, and over and
above all she was disappointed in her Sunday. It did not seem like a
Sunday--the happy beautiful day that comes bringing sunshine to the heart
and sweetness and peace to the home, giving to all strength and courage to
take up the burden of daily work again, and go singing on one's way.

Audrey had been late for prayers in the morning, and Debby had annoyed her
on her way to church by appearing with a hole in her stocking; while at
dinnertime she had been so annoyed by the sight of finger-marks on her
tumbler, that she had neither given thanks for her food nor returned them.

The afternoon which she had longed to give up to reading she had had to
devote to the Sunday School. She did not like children, and she detested
teaching, "but, of course, if you very much dislike a thing you are bound
to have it thrust on you, and if you love a thing very much, well, that is
quite enough to prevent your being able to have it." She cried bitterly
in the solitude of her own room. She went to the school and she took her
class, but neither pupils nor teacher benefited by the lessons. To the
children she was cold and unsympathetic. She took no interest in them or
their doings; and they in their turn did not like her. And, more than
that, they judged other teachers by her.

"If that's what Sunday School teachers is like, you don't catch me coming
again," declared Mil