en are to the changed atmosphere when something goes wrong in
the mysterious grown-up world.

"Oh no; not with the houses still lit up," said Caroline.

"There's such a lot of trees. I hate them old trees," said Winnie
under her breath.

But Caroline did not hear her, and the two walked on silently, side by
side, under the shadow of the large beech trees which formed an avenue
beside the pavement. They went so very slowly that Winnie asked if
Caroline were tired, but receiving no answer she plodded on, still full
of the vague puzzled discomfort which all children know, and which they
never speak of to any human soul. At last she felt the hand in her own
close nervously, and then two people emerged from a gateway in front of
them.

"Oh!" she said, in her high little voice, "there's Mr. Wilson and Miss
Temple. They're going into the house. I like Miss Temple, don't you?
She gave mother----"

"Hush!" interrupted Caroline, her whole being absorbed in watching the
couple who now stood together in the bright light which streamed from
the open door.

"Coming in, Godfrey?" said Laura. Caroline could hear quite plainly
from her dark ambush under the beeches.

Then followed a moment's silence, during which Caroline's heart beat so
loudly that it almost seemed to her as if they must hear the thump!
thump! thump! ever so far away, like a sound of drums beating. Then
Godfrey said: "Oh yes; I'll come in. It is only about half-past nine."

She went first into the house, and he waited outside a moment with the
light streaming through the doorway full on his face. All at once
Caroline started to run--she must see him alone. She must speak to him.

"Cousin Carrie!" piped Winnie. "You're hurting my hand! You're
hurting my hand!" But the door closed before they got across the road,
and they were alone in the dark lane.

Caroline looked at that shut door, moved by an emotion which was not
only the outcome of the experience of the moment, but which was also a
part of her very flesh and blood. Her own mother. Aunt Creddle, Aunt
Ellen, generations of women before them--all had lived "in service" and
had watched the drama of life going on behind room doors which were
always closed lest "the servants" should hear or see. And so acute had
these senses become, sharpened by closed doors, that they always did
see and hear, though they did not in the least resent this attitude of
their employers, considering it just a part