, after all.
Still, I think I shall spend some time in doing my utmost to help you
and yours, Carrie."

"God bless you, dear! Now run up to auntie. You will find me in the
summer-house whenever you like to come down. I hope you will spend the
afternoon with me, Frances, and have tea; I can send you home in the
evening."

"You are very kind, Carrie, but I must not stay. I will say good-bye to
you now, for I must go back to Martinstown for a few minutes early this
afternoon. Good-bye, thank you. You are evidently a very real friend in
need."

Frances kissed Mrs. Passmore, and then ran lightly up the broad and
richly carpeted stairs. Her footsteps made no sound on the thick
Axminster. She flitted past down a long gallery hung with portraits,
presently stopped before a baize door, paused for a second, then opened
it swiftly and went in.

She found herself in an anteroom, darkened and rendered cool with soft
green silk drapery. The anteroom led to a large room beyond. She tapped
at the door of the inside room, and an austere-looking woman dressed as
a nurse opened it immediately. Her face lighted up when she saw Frances.

"Miss Kane, you're just the person of all others my mistress would like
to see. Walk in, miss, please. Can you stay for half an hour? If so,
I'll leave you."

"Yes, Jennings. I am sorry Mrs. Carnegie is so ill to-day."

Then she stepped across the carpeted floor, the door was closed behind
her, and she found herself in the presence of a tall thin woman, who was
lying full length on a sofa by the open window. Never was there a more
peevish face than the invalid wore. Her brows were slightly drawn
together, her lips had fretful curves; the pallor of great pain, of
intense nervous suffering, dwelt on her brow. Frances went softly up to
her.

"How do you do, Mrs. Carnegie?" she said, in her gentle voice.

The sound was so low and sweet that the invalid did not even start. A
smile like magic chased the furrows from her face.

"Sit down, Frances, there's a dear child," she said. "Now, I have been
wishing for you more than for any one. I'm at my very worst to-day,
dear. My poor back is so bad--oh, the nerves, dear child, the nerves! I
really feel that I can not speak a civil word to any one, and Jennings
is so awkward, painfully awkward--her very step jars me; and why will
she wear those stiff-starched caps and aprons? But there, few understand
those unfortunates who are martyrs to nerves."

"You ha