e did not sew, either. She just sat
idly by the fire and moped and dozed, or roused herself to grumble at
something or other.

The day after she came to Hillside, Mona had written to her mother.
She told her where she was, and why, and tried to say that she was sorry,
but no reply had come, and this troubled her greatly.

"Were they too angry with her to have anything more to say to her?
Was Lucy ill?"

Every day she went to meet the postman, her heart throbbing with eager
anxiety, and day after day she went back disappointed. If it had not been
for very shame, she would have run away again and gone home, and have
asked to be forgiven, but she could not make up her mind to do that.
Probably they would not want her at home again, after all the trouble and
expense she had been to them. Perhaps her father might even send her back
to Hillside again. The shame of that would be unbearable!

She was uncomfortable, too, as well as unhappy. She wanted her clothes,
her brush and comb, her books, and all her other belongings. She had,
after a fashion, settled into her old room again, but it seemed bare and
unhomelike after her pretty one at Cliff Cottage.

Then one day, after long waiting and longing, and hope and disappointment,
her father came. For a moment her heart had leaped with the glad wild
hope that he had come to take her back with him. Then the sight of the
box and parcel he carried had dashed it down again. He had brought her
all her possessions.

"Well, Mona," he said quietly, as she stood facing him, shy and
embarrassed. "So you prefer Hillside to Seacombe! Well, it's always best
to be where you're happiest, if you feel free to make your choice.
For my own part, I couldn't live away from the sea, but tastes differ."

"But--mine--don't differ," stammered Mona. "I am not happier." She was
so overcome she could hardly speak above a whisper, and her father had
already turned to Mrs. Barnes.

"Well, mother," he cried, and poor Mona could not help noticing how much
more kindly his voice sounded when he spoke to granny. "How are you?
You don't look first rate. Don't 'ee feel up to the mark?" He spoke
lightly, but his eyes, as they studied the old woman's face, were full of
surprise and concern. Granny shook her head. "No, I ain't well,"
she said, dully. "I'm very, very far from well. I don't know what's the
matter. P'raps 'tis the weather."

"The weather's grand. It's bootiful enough to set e