sober look on her face.

"You don't think mother would really leave Highfield?" she asked her
brother anxiously.

"Bunkum!" replied that light-hearted youth. "We always have more or less
of a fuss when my school bills come in. It'll soon fizzle out again!
Don't you fret yourself. Things will jog on as they always have jogged
on. There'll be nothing done, you'll see. Come on and bowl for me,
that's a chubby one!"

"But this time mother really seemed to be in earnest," said Winona
meditatively, as she helped to put up the stumps.

Mrs. Woodward had been left a widow three years before this story opens.
She was a fair, fragile little woman, still pretty, and pathetically
helpless. She had been accustomed to lean upon her husband, and now, for
lack of firmer support, she leaned upon Winona. Winona was young to act
as prop, and though it flattered her sense of importance, it had put a
row of wrinkles on her girlish forehead. At fifteen she seemed much
older than Percy at sixteen. No one ever dreamt of taking Percy
seriously; he was one of those jolly, easy-going, happy-go-lucky,
unreliable people who saunter through life with no other aim than to
amuse themselves at all costs. To depend upon him was like trusting to a
boat without a bottom. Though nominally the eldest, he had little more
sense of responsibility than Ernie, the youngest. It was Winona who
shouldered the family burdens.

The Woodwards had always lived at Highfield, and in their opinion it was
the most desirable residence in the whole of Rytonshire. The house was
old enough to be picturesque, but modern enough for comfort. Its quaint
gables, mullioned windows and Cromwellian porch were the joy of
photographers, while the old-fashioned hall, when the big log fire was
lighted, would be hard to beat for coziness. The schoolroom, on the
ground floor, had a separate side entrance on to the lawn, leading
through a small ante-room where boots and coats and cricket bats and
tennis rackets could be kept; the drawing-room had a luxurious ingle
nook with cushioned seats, and all the bedrooms but two had a southern
aspect. As for the big rambling garden, it was full of delightful
old-world flowers that came up year after year: daffodils and violets
and snow-flakes, and clumps of pinks, and orange lilies and Canterbury
bells, and tall Michaelmas daisies, and ribbon grass and royal Osmunda
fern, the sort of flowers that people used to pick in days gone by, put
a paper