when mona woke the next morning she felt vaguely that something was missing. "why it's the smell of the wallflowers!" she cried, after lying for some minutes wondering what it could be. but in her new desire to get dressed and downstairs early she did not give the matter another thought.

lucy, coming down later, stepped to the door for a moment to breathe in the sunshine and sweet morning air. "oh," she cried, and her voice rang out sharply, full of dismay, "oh, mona, come quick. whatever has happened to our wallflowers! why, look at them! they are all dead! oh, the poor things! someone must have pulled them up in sheer wickedness! isn't it cruel? isn't it shameful!"

mona, rushing to the door to look, found lucy on her knees by the dying plants, the tears dropping from her eyes. only yesterday they were so happy and so beautiful, a rich carpet of brown, gold, tawny, and crimson, all glowing in the sunshine, and filling the air with their glorious scent—and now! oh, it was pitiful, pitiful.

"i'll fill a tub with water and plunge them all in," cried lucy, frantically collecting her poor favourites—then suddenly she dropped them. "no, no, i won't, i'll bury them out of sight. i could never give them new life. oh, who could have been so wicked?"

mona was standing beside her, white-faced and silent. at her mother's last question, she opened her lips for the first time. "i—i did it," she gasped in a horrified voice. "i—didn't know, i must have done it when i was weeding. oh, mother, i am so sorry. what can i do—oh, what can i do!"

"you! oh, mona!" but at the sight of mona's distress lucy forgot her own.

"never mind. it can't be helped. 'twas an accident, of course, and no one can prevent accidents. don't fret about it, dear. of course, you wouldn't have hurt them if you'd known what you were doing!"

but her words failed to comfort mona, for in her inmost heart she knew that she should have known better, that she could have helped it. it was just carelessness again.

"they wouldn't have lasted more than a week or two longer, i expect," added lucy, consolingly, trying to comfort herself as well as mona. "now, we'll get this bed ready for the ten-weeks stocks. it will do the ground good to rest a bit. i daresay the stocks will be all the finer for it later on." but still mona was not consoled.

"if i hadn't run away and left them to go and buy that hateful wreath," she was thinking. "if only i had remembered to press the earth tight round them again—if—if only i'd been more careful when i was weeding, and—if, if, if! it's all ifs with me!" aloud, she said bitterly, "i only seem to do harm to everything i touch. i'd better give up! if i don't do anything, p'raps i shan't do mischief."

lucy laughed. "poor old paddy," she cried. "why, you couldn't live and not do anything. every minute of your life you are doing something, and when you are doing what you call 'nothing' you will be doing mischief, if it's only in setting a bad example. and you can work splendidly if you like, mona, and you do like, i know. i shan't forget for a long while how nice you'd got everything by the time i came home last night, and how early you got up this morning."

mona's face brightened.

"you've got to learn to think, that's all, dear; and to remember to finish off one thing before you leave it to go to another. it's just the want of that that lies at the root of most of your trouble."

a sound of many feet hurrying along the street and of shouting voices made lucy break off suddenly, and sent them both running to the gate.

"boats are in sight, missis. fine catch!" called one and another as they hurried along.

lucy and mona looked at each other with glad relief in their eyes. there had been no real cause for anxiety because the little fishing fleet had not been home at dawn, yet now they knew that they had been a little bit anxious, lucy especially, and their pleasure was all the greater. for a moment mona, in her excitement, was for following the rest to the quay where the fish would be landed. it was so exciting, such fun, to be in all the bustle of the unloading, and the selling—and to know that for a time, at any rate, money would not be scarce, and rent and food and firing would be secure.

mona loved nothing better than such mornings as this—but her first step was her last. "i won't remember 'too late' this time," she said to herself determinedly, and turning, she made her way quickly into the house. there would be more than enough to do to get ready. there would be hot water, dry clothes, and a hot breakfast to get for the tired, cold, famished father.

"now you sit down, mother, and stoke the fire, i'll see to the rest," and for the next hour she flew around, doing one thing after another, and as deftly as a woman. she was so busy and so happy she forgot all about the beach and the busy scene there, the excitement, and the fun.

but before lucy did any 'stoking' she went out with a rake and smoothed over the rough earth of the empty wallflower bed. "if it's looking tidy, perhaps he won't notice anything's wrong when he first comes home," she thought. "when he's less tired he'll be able to bear the disappointment better." she knew that if he missed his flowers one of his chief pleasures in his homecoming would be gone, and she almost dreaded to hear the sound of his footsteps because of the disappointment in store for him. because she could not bear to see it, she stayed in the kitchen, and only mona went out to meet him. lucy heard his loved voice, hoarse and tired, but cheerful still. "hullo, my girl!" he cried, "how's mother, and how 'ave 'ee got on? i was 'fraid she'd be troubling. hullo! why, what's happened to our wallflowers?"

at the sound of the dismay in his voice, lucy had to go out. "poor mona," she thought, "it's hard on her! why, father!" she cried brightly, standing in the doorway with a glad face and happy welcome. "we're so glad to see you at last. make haste in, you must be tired to death, and cold through and through. mona's got everything ready for you, as nice as can be. she's worked hard since we heard the boats were come. we've all got good appetites for our breakfast, i guess."

then, in his pleasure at seeing his wife and child again, peter carne forgot all about his flowers. putting his arms around them both, he gave them each a hearty kiss, and all went in together. "i ain't hardly fit to," he said, laughing, "but you're looking as fresh and sweet as two daisies this morning."

diving his hand deep into his pocket, he drew out a handful of gold and silver. "here, mother, here's something you'll be glad of! now, mona, my girl," as he dropped into his arm-chair, "where's my old slippers?"

mona picked them up from the fender, where they had been warming, and, kneeling down, she pulled off his heavy boots. once more she was filled with the feeling that if she could only do something to make up for the harm she had done she would not feel so bad.

"thank'ee, little maid. oh, it's good to be home again!" he leaned back and stretched his tired limbs with a sigh of deep content. "but i mustn't stop here, i must go and have a wash, and change into dry things before i have my breakfast. i can tell you, i'm more than a bit hungry. when i've had it i've got to go down and clean out the boat."

"oh, not till you've had a few hours' sleep," coaxed lucy. "you must have some rest, father. i've a good mind to turn the key on you."

her husband laughed too. "there's no need for locks and keys to-day," he said, ruefully. "if i was to start out i believe i'd have to lie down in the road and have a nap before i got to the bottom of the street. i'll feel better when i've had a wash."

as he stumbled out of the kitchen lucy picked up the coins lying on the table, and put them in a little locked box in the cupboard. mona, coming back into the kitchen from putting her father's sea-boots away, saw that there seemed to be quite a large sum.

"shall i have my new hat?" she wondered eagerly. "there's plenty of money now." but lucy only said, "i'll have to get wool to make some new stockings for your father, and a jersey, and i'll have to go to baymouth to get it. mr. tamlin doesn't keep the right sort. can you knit stockings, mona?"

"ye—es, but i hate——" she drew herself up sharply. "yes, i can, but i'd rather scrub, or sweep, or—or anything."

"never mind, i'll make them. i'm fond of all that kind of work. i'll have to be quick about the jersey, for i see that one he's got on has a great hole in the elbow, and he's only got his best one besides. i'd better go to baymouth on wednesday. it won't do to put it off."

"i wish i could take you with me," she said to mona regretfully when the wednesday came, and she was getting ready to start. "i would, only your father thinks he'll be back about tea-time, and he'll need a hot meal when he comes. never mind, dear, you shall go next time."

"oh—h—that's all right." mona tried to speak cheerfully, but neither face nor voice looked or sounded all right! the thought uppermost in her mind was that there was no chance of her having her new hat. her mother could not get that unless she was there to try it on.

she saw her mother off, and she did try to be pleasant, but she could not help a little aggrieved feeling at her heart.

"granny would have bought me one before now," she said to herself. she did really want not to have such thoughts. she still felt mean and uncomfortable about the wreath, and in her heart she knew that her stepmother was kinder to her than she deserved.

when she had done the few things she had to do, and had had her dinner, and changed her frock, she went out into the garden. it would be less lonely there, she thought, and she could weed the path a little. she would never touch one of the flower beds again! before she had been out there long, millie higgins came down the hill. at the sight of mona, millie drew up. "so you ain't gone to baymouth too?" she said, leaning over the low stone wall, and evidently prepared for a talk. "i saw your mother starting off. why didn't she take you with her? you'd have liked to have gone, wouldn't you?"

"yes," mona admitted.

"well, why didn't you?"

"somebody had to be here to look after father. he'll be home before mother gets back."

millie higgins snorted sarcastically. "very nice for some people to be able to go off and enjoy themselves and leave others to look after things for them! if i were you i'd say i'd like to go too."

mona resented millie's tone. a sense of fairness rose within her too. "if i'd said i wanted to go, i daresay i could have gone," she retorted coldly. "i'm going another time."

"oh, are you? well, that's all right as long as you are satisfied," meaningly. "good-bye," and with a nod millie took herself off. but before she had gone more than a few paces she was back again.

"come on out and play for a bit, won't you?"

"i'd like to," mona hesitated, "but i don't know for certain what time father'll get back."

"well, i do! i know they won't be home yet awhile. they'll wait till the tide serves. come along, mona, you might as well come out and play for half an hour as stick moping here. you might spend all your life waiting about for the old boats to come in, and never have a bit of pleasure if you don't take it when you can. we'll go down to the quay, then you'll be able to see the boats coming. after they're in sight there'll be heaps of time to run home and get things ready."

the temptation was great, too great. mona loved the quay, and the life and cheerfulness there. towards evening all the children in the place congregated there, playing 'last touch,' 'hop-scotch,' and all the rest of the games they loved, to a chorus of shouts, and screams, and laughter. then there was the sea to look at too, so beautiful and grand, and awe-inspiring in the fading light. oh, how dearly she loved it all!

in her ears millie's words still rang: "you might spend all your life waiting about for the old boats, and never have a bit of pleasure, if you don't take it when you can."

"wait a minute," she said eagerly, "i'll just put some coal on the fire and get my hat."

she banked up a good fire, unhung her hat, and, pulling the door after her, ran out to millie again, "i'm ready now," she said excitedly.

when they arrived at the quay they received a very warm welcome; they were just in time to take part in a game of 'prisoners.' after that they had one of 'tip,' and one or two of 'hop-scotch,' then 'prisoners' again; and how many more mona could never remember, for she had lost count of time, and everything but the fun, until she was suddenly brought to her senses by a man's voice saying, "well, it's time they were in, the clock struck seven ten minutes agone."

"seven!" mona was thunderstruck. "did you say seven?" she gasped, and scarcely waiting for an answer she took to her heels and tore up the street to her home. her mind was full of troubled thoughts. the fire would be out, the house all in darkness. she had only pulled the front door behind her, she had not locked it. oh, dear! what a number of things she had left undone! what a muddle she had made of things. when, as she drew near the house, she saw a light shining from the kitchen window, her heart sank lower than ever it had done before.

"father must have come! oh! and me not there, and—and nothing ready. oh, i wouldn't have had it happen for anything." she rushed up to the house so fast and burst into the kitchen so violently that her mother, who was sitting in her chair, apparently lost in thought, sprang up in alarm.

"oh, mona! it's you! you frightened me so, child. where's your father," she asked anxiously. "haven't you seen him?"

"no, he hasn't come yet."

lucy's face grew as white as a lily. her eyes were full of terror, which always haunted her. "p'raps he came home while you were out, and went out again when he found the house empty."

"he couldn't. i've been on the quay all the time. the boats couldn't have come in without my seeing them. i was waiting for him. everybody was saying how late they were. they couldn't think why."

"yes—they are dreadfully late—but i—i didn't think you'd have gone out and left the house while i was away," said lucy with gentle reproach. "but, as you did, you should have locked the door behind you. i s'pose mr. king called before you left?"

"he hasn't been," faltered mona, her heart giving a great throb. she had entirely forgotten that the landlord's agent was coming for his rent that afternoon. "the money's on the dresser. i put it there."

"is it? i couldn't see it. i looked for it at once when i found the door wide open and nobody here."

"open! i shut it after me. i didn't lock it, but i pulled the door fast after me. you can't have looked in the right place, mother. i put it by the brown jug." and, never doubting but that her mother had overlooked it, mona searched the dressers herself. but there was no money on them, not even a farthing for the baker. "but i put it there! i put it there myself!" she kept repeating more and more frantically. she got upon a chair and searched every inch of every shelf, and turned every jug and cup upside down. "it must be somewhere."

"yes, somewhere! but it isn't here, and it isn't in mr. king's pocket." poor lucy sank back in her chair looking ready to faint. five shillings meant much to her. it was so horrible, too, to feel that a thief had been in, and had perhaps gone all over the house. who could say what more he had taken, or what mischief he had done.

she was disappointed also in her trust in mona, and she was tired and faint from want of food. all her pleasure in her day and in her homecoming was gone, changed to worry and weariness and disappointment.

"but who can have been so wicked as to take it!" cried mona passionately. "nobody had any right to open our door and come into our house. it's hard to think one can't go out for a few minutes but what somebody must come and act dishonest——"

"we can't talk about others not doing right if we don't do right ourselves! your father and i left you here in charge, and you undertook the charge. we trusted you."

mona got down from the chair. "it's very hard if i can't ever go anywhere—i only went for a little while. millie said father wouldn't be here—the boats weren't in sight. and you see she was right! they are ever so late."

"well, i suppose we are all made differently, but i couldn't have played games knowing that the boats ought to have been in, and not knowing what might have happened to my father."

"i get tired of always sticking around, waiting on the old boats. i never thought of there being any danger, they're so often late. it was only towards the end that people came down looking for them and wondering."

lucy groaned. "well, i'm thankful you don't suffer as i do, child. p'raps i'm foolish, but i'm terrified of the sea, and i never get accustomed to the danger of it." and she looked so white and wan, mona's heart was touched, and some of the sullenness died out of her face and voice.

"i never thought—there was only a little wind," she began, when a sharp rap at the door interrupted her, then the latch was raised, and the door opened briskly. "boats are in sight, mrs. carne! and all's well!" cried a voice cheerfully, and old job maunders popped his grizzled head round the screen. "i thought you might be troubling, ma'am, so i just popped 'fore to tell 'ee. i'm off down to see if i can lend a hand."

and before lucy could thank him, the kindly old man was hurrying away through the garden and down the street.

but what changed feelings he had left behind him! tired though she was, lucy was on her feet in a moment and her face radiant. "come, dear, we've got to bustle round now for a bit. you run and get some sticks and make a good fire, and i'll get out his clean, dry things. then while i'm cooking the supper you can be laying the cloth."

while she spoke she was gathering up a lot of parcels which were lying scattered over the table.

"i'm longing to show you what i've bought."

"yes," thought mona, "and i am longing to see!"

"i wonder if you'll like what i've chosen for you."

"i wonder, too!" thought mona.

"we'll have a good look at everything when we've had supper. then we needn't be hurrying and scurrying all the time, and there'll be more room."

in spite of the upset to her feelings, mona was interested, but all real pleasure was gone. she knew that probably there was something for her in one of the fat parcels, but the thought of taking any more kindness from lucy, to whom she had behaved so badly, was painful. she wanted, instead, to make amends to replace the lost five shillings. she longed to have the money to pay back, but she had not one penny! all she could do was to work, and to go without things she wanted. she could do the first better than the last, and she would rather. she did not really mind working, but she did mind denying herself things she had set her heart on. "but i will, i will," she thought to herself while the shock of the theft was still on her.

before very long the fire was burning brightly, the kettle was beginning to sing, and lucy was cooking the sausages and bacon she had brought back with her from baymouth. the savoury smell of them wafted through the kitchen and reached the hungry, weary man trudging heavily up the garden. then mona caught the sound of his coming, and rushed out, while lucy stood behind her with radiant face and glowing eyes.

"you must be chilled to the bone, and dead beat," she cried. "ain't you, father?"

"i thought i was—but i ain't now. it's worth everything just for the pleasure of coming back to a home like mine, my girl."