meant for Phipps. If Granny Carlyle died, her home
of forty years was gone from her. For the first time in her life Audrey
realised what we all come to realise as we grow older--that the
sorrowfulness of death is not with those who go, but with those who are
left behind.

"I shall lose everything," sobbed Phipps, "everything I care for.
My dear mistress, my home--everything, and I shall never be happy in
another."

"Oh, poor Phipps!" cried Audrey, genuinely troubled. What could one do or
say to comfort such sorrow! But her sympathy comforted Phipps a little,
and she cheered up somewhat.

"If you will come down when you are ready, miss, I will have tea waiting
for you," she said as she left the room, "and after tea the mistress would
like to see you."

But, tired and exhausted though she was, Audrey could only make a pretence
of taking the meal. To be sitting alone in that big room, which she had
hitherto never known without her granny, and feeling that in all
probability she would never, never see her there again, was sufficient in
itself to destroy any appetite she had. Her thoughts, too, were full of
the coming interview. What could she say and do? Would granny be much
changed? These and a dozen other questions hammered at her brain as she
poured herself out a cup of tea. How she had once longed to be allowed to
pour tea from that silver tea-pot, and pick up the sugar with those dainty
little tongs, which granny would never allow her to touch. What a proud
day it would be, so she used to think, when she might! But now--now that
the day had come, she found no pride or pleasure in it, only a sort of
shrinking. It seemed to her to be taking advantage of granny's
helplessness--that she had no right. She was haunted by the sight of
granny's fragile, delicate hand clasping that handle, and delicately
turning over the lumps of sugar to find one of a suitable size.

"Would she be much changed?" Her thoughts flew again to the coming
interview, which she so dreaded.

Yet, after all, though sad, it was very quiet and simple. Granny lay flat
in her bed, looking much as usual, save that the face surrounded by the
night-cap frill was thinner, and gentler, perhaps, and more kind.

"Come round to the other side, dear," she said softly, as Audrey
approached her, and only then did Audrey realise that granny's right arm
and side were helpless.

She was very white as she stooped down to kiss her grandmother, and