thing to
pack in. I can't go. I can't possibly go. I haven't any clothes.
Don't worry me so, Audrey."

Audrey showed no resentment. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. "Oh, I see.
Well, we won't bother about that now. But, Faith, I do want you to go.
I came down on purpose to ask you to. I want you to go as--as a favour to
me. I will tell you why. I want to stay at home, I--I mean I can't go
away just now, for I want to finish some writing very, very particularly,"
and she breathed in Faith's ear the precious secret about her 'play.'

Her ruse answered perfectly.

"_You_ have _written_ a play!" Faith sat erect in her bed, all her
tiredness, all her depression gone. "A real play! Oh, Audrey, do you
mean it? How clever you are! Of course I'll go and take the children, to
leave you here in peace to finish it. I don't care how shabby my clothes
are!"

Audrey winced. She would have liked--or, rather, it would have been
pleasant--if Faith--and all--could just have realised her self-sacrifice--
how much it cost her to stand aside, and give up so great a pleasure.

"Oh, I could----" she began, but, to her lasting joy, recovered herself in
a moment, and never finished her sentence.

"Audrey, will you let me read it, some day?" Faith's eyes were full of
appeal.

Audrey coloured. "Some day, perhaps," she said shyly. "Now I must go to
bed."

"Thank you," said Faith simply. "Oh, Audrey, I _am_ so happy!"
She turned her pale face to the window, her eyes to the stars in the
blue-black sky. "I am so happy that I feel I must get out and say my
prayers again. A few minutes ago everything seemed black and dreary, but
now----"

"I will say mine too," said Audrey gently, "before I go." And the two
sisters knelt down side by side in the darkness, and said their prayers
again together, 'because they were so happy,' with the happiness which
comes of giving up something for one another.

The next morning Audrey got up early, and, going to the box-room, dragged
out from their coverings her pretty green box and portmanteau. Then she
went back to her room, and from her cupboards and drawers she collected a
pair of house-shoes and a pair of boots, gloves, stockings, a soft grey
cashmere dress that she had a little grown out of, and a Leghorn hat,
which, she knew, had long filled Faith's heart with envy. All these she
popped into the trunk.

"There is something towards going away," she said, as she dragged the
boxes