boots if you get your feet wet. And
don't lean out of the window in the train."

For some time past Laura had had need of all her self-control, not to
cry before the children. As the hour drew near it had grown harder and
harder; while dressing, she had resorted to counting the number of
times the profile of a Roman emperor appeared in the flowers on the
wallpaper. Now the worst moment of all was come--the moment of
good-bye. She did not look at Pin, but she heard her tireless, snuffly
weeping, and set her own lips tight.

"Yes, mother ... no, mother," she answered shortly, "I'll be all right.
Good-bye." She could not, however, restrain a kind of dry sob, which
jumped up her throat.

When she was in the coach Sarah, whom she had forgotten climbed up to
kiss her; and there was some joking between O'Donnell and the servant
while the steps were being folded and put away. Laura did not smile;
her thin little face was very pale. Mother's heart went out to her in a
pity which she did not know how to express.

"Don't forget your sandwiches. And when you're alone, feel in the
pocket of your ulster and you'll find something nice. Good-bye,
darling."

"Good-bye ... good-bye."

The driver had mounted to his seat, he unwound the reins cried "Get
up!" to the two burly horses, the vehicle was set in motion and
trundled down the main street. Until it turned the corner by the Shire
Gardens, Laura let her handkerchief fly from the window. Sarah waved
hers; then wiped her eyes and lustily blew her nose. Mother only sighed.

"It was all she could do to keep up," she said as much to herself as to
Sarah. "I do hope she'll be all right. She seems such a child to be
sending off like this. Yet what else could I do? To a State School,
I've always said it, my children shall never go--not if I have to beg
the money to send them elsewhere."

But she sighed again, in spite of the energy of her words, and stood
gazing at the place where the coach had disappeared. She was still a
comparatively young woman, and straight of body; but trouble, poverty
and night-watches had scored many lines on her forehead.

"Don't you worry," said Sarah. "Miss Laura'll be all right. She's just
a bit too clever--brains for two, that's what it is. An' children WILL
grow up an' get big ... an' change their feathers." She spoke absently,
drawing her metaphor from a brood of chickens which had strayed across
the road, and was now trying to mount the wooden veran