granny was much better, and was downstairs again, but she was weak and very helpless still. she was sad too, and depressed. the last few weeks had shaken her confidence in herself, her spirit was strong enough still, but more than once lately her body had failed her. when, in her old way, she had said that she would do this, or that, or the other thing, she had found out after all, that she could not. her body had absolutely refused to obey her.

"i ain't dependent on other folks yet!" she had said sharply, and had afterwards found out that she was, and the discovery alarmed her. it saddened her, and broke her spirit.

"i ought to be in a home. i'd rather be in one, or—or be dead, than be a burden on other folks," she moaned.

granny was very hard to live with in those days. even a grown-up would have found it difficult to know what to say in answer to her complainings.

"granny, don't talk like that!" mona would plead, and she would work harder than ever that there might be nothing for granny to do, or to find fault with. but however hard she worked, and however nice she kept things, she always found that there were still some things left undone, and that those were the very things that, in granny's opinion, mattered most.

as for reading, or play-time, mona never found any for either now, and oh, how often and how longingly her thoughts turned to the quay, and to the rocks, and the games that were going on there evening after evening! sometimes it almost seemed that she could hear the laughter and the calls, the voice of the sea, the rattle of the oars in the rowlocks, the cries of the gulls, and then she would feel as though she could not bear to be away from them all another moment. that she must race back to them then and there; never, never to leave them any more!

the loneliness, and the hard work, and the confinement to the house told on her. she became thin, the colour died out of her cheeks, and the gladness from her eyes, and all the life and joyousness seemed to go out of her. she grew, and grew rapidly, but she stooped so much she did not look as tall as she really was.

granny barnes, looking at her sweeping out the path one day, had her eyes suddenly opened, and the revelation startled her. she did not say anything to mona, she just watched her carefully, but she did not again blame her for laziness; and while she watched her, her thoughts travelled backwards. a year ago mona had been noisy, lively, careless, but cheerful, always full of some new idea. she had been round and rosy too, and full of mischief. now she was listless, quiet, and apparently interested in nothing.

"have you got a headache, mona?"

"no," said mona indifferently, "i don't think so."

"is your back aching?"

"it always is."

"then why didn't you say so, child?"

"what's the good? the work has to be done."

"if you're bad you must leave it undone. you can't go making yourself ill."

"i ain't ill, and i'd sooner do the work. there's nothing else to do."

"can't you read sometimes? you used to be so fond of reading."

"if i read i forget to do things, and then——" she was going to say "there's a row," but she stopped herself just in time. "i've read all my books till i know them by heart nearly." even while she spoke she was getting out the ironing cloth, and spreading it on the table. the irons were already hot on the stove.

granny barnes did not say any more, but sat for a long time gazing into the fire, apparently deep in thought. mona looking up presently, attracted by the silence, was struck by her weary, drooping look, by the sadness of the tired old eyes. but she did not say anything. presently granny roused herself and looked up. "put away your ironing, child," she said kindly, "and go out and have a game of play. the air will do you good."

"i don't want to go out, granny. there's no one to play with—and i'm afraid to leave you; what could you do if you were to faint again?"

granny sighed. the child was right. "i—i could knock in to mrs. lane, perhaps," she said, but there was doubt in her voice, and she did not press mona any further.

mona went on with her ironing, and granny went on staring into the fire, and neither spoke again for some time. not until mona, going over to take up a fresh hot iron, saw something bright shining on her grandmother's cheek, then fall on to her hand.

"are you feeling bad again, granny?" she asked anxiously. the sight of the tear touched her, and brought a note of sympathy into her voice, and the sympathy in her voice in turn touched her granny, and drew both together.

"no—i don't know that i'm feeling worse than usual, but—but, well i feel that it'd be a good thing if my time was ended. i'm only a trouble and a burden now—no more help for anybody."

"granny! granny! you mustn't say such things!" mona dropped her iron back on the stove again, and threw herself on the floor beside her grandmother. "you mustn't talk like that! you're weak, that's all. you want to rest for a bit and have some tonics. mrs. lane says so."

"does she? i seem to want something," leaning her weary head against mona's, "but it's more than tonics—it's a new body that i'm needing, i reckon. i daresay it's only foolishness, but sometimes i feel like a little child, i want to be took care of, and someone to make much of me, and say like mother used to, 'now leave everything to me. i'll see to it all!' it seems to me one wants a bit of petting when one comes to the end of one's life, as much as one does at the beginning—i don't know but what a little is good for one at any age."

mona slipped down till she sat on the floor at her granny's feet, her head resting against granny's knee. "i think so too," she said wistfully. silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire within and the buzz of insects, and the calling of the birds, outside in the garden.

"mona, how would you like it if we went into seacombe to live?"

mona was up in a moment, her face alight with eagerness, but some instinct stopped her from expressing too much delight. in the softened feeling which had crept into her heart, she realised that to her grandmother the move would mean a great wrench.

"she must love hillside as much, or nearly as much as i love seacombe," she told herself. aloud she said, "i'd like it, but you wouldn't, would you, granny?"

"i think i would. i'd like to be nearer your father, and—and you would be happy there, and perhaps you'd feel stronger. i'm getting to feel," she added after a little pause, "that one can be happy anywhere, if those about one are happy. or, to put it another way, one can't be happy anywhere if those about one ain't happy."

mona felt very guilty. "granny," she said, but in rather a choky voice, "i'll be happy here, if you'd rather stay here—i will really. i do love hillside—it's only the sea i miss, and the fun, and—and the excitement when the boats come in—but i shall forget all about it soon, and i'll be happy here too, if you'd like to stay."

she did try to put aside her own feelings, and speak cheerfully, and she succeeded—but, to her surprise, her grandmother did not jump at her offer.

"no, child, i wouldn't rather stay. i'd like to go. i feel i want to be near my own, and your father and you are all i've got. i think i'll ask him if he can find a little house that'll suit us."

"won't you live with us, granny? you can have my room."

but granny would not hear of that. "i've always had a home of my own, and i couldn't live in anybody else's," she said decisively. "your stepmother's too much of an invalid herself too, to be able to look after another."

"then you'd want me to live with you?" asked mona, with a little break in her voice. she was disappointed, but she tried not to show it.

"yes, dearie," her eyes scanning mona's face wistfully, "wouldn't you like that?"

mona hesitated for only a second, then "yes, granny, i should," she said, and then as the idea became more familiar, she said more heartily, "yes, i'd love to, and oh, granny, if we could only get one of the little houses down by the quay it would be lovely! i'm sure you'd like it——"

"i couldn't live down by the quay," granny interrupted sharply, "i wouldn't live there if a house was given me rent free. it is too noisy, for one thing, and you feel every breath of wind that blows."

"but you're close, when the boats come in——"

"aye, and when they don't come in," said granny. "i ain't so fond of the sea as you are, and i should never know any rest of mind down close by it. every time the wind blew i'd be terrified."

mona looked vexed. "it isn't often that there's any place at all to let," she said crossly. "if we don't take what we can get, we shall never go at all."

but granny barnes was not alarmed. "don't you trouble yourself about that. your father'll find us something for certain. he'd got his eye on a little place when he was here, he wanted me to take it then. i almost wish i had, now. never mind, i'll write to him to-night or to-morrow. if i was well i would go in by john darbie's van and have a look about for myself."

all this sounded so much like business, that mona sat up, all her glumness falling from her. when granny barnes once made up her mind to do a thing, she did not let the grass grow under her feet. there was, after all, much of mona's nature in her, and when once she had made up her mind to leave her old home, it almost seemed as though she could not get away quickly enough.

perhaps it was that she felt her courage might fail her if she gave herself much time to think about things. perhaps she felt she could not face the pain and the worry if she gave herself time to worry much. or, it may have been that she really did feel anxious about mona's health and her own, and wanted to be settled in seacombe as soon as possible.

at any rate she so managed that within a fortnight all her belongings were mounted on to two of mr. dodd's waggons and were carried off to the new home, while she and mona followed in john darbie's van, seen off by mrs. lane. mrs. lane was very tearful and sad at parting with them.

"i know it's for the best for both of you—but i feel as if i can't bear the sight nor the thought of the empty home." then she kissed them both, and stood in the road in the sunshine, waving her hand to them till they were out of sight.

"wave your handkerchief to her, mona; blow another kiss to her, child." but granny kept her own head turned away, and her eyes fixed on the bit of white dusty road which lay ahead of them. neither could she bear the sight of the empty house, nor of the neighbour she was leaving.

mona's eyes were full of tears, but granny's were dry, though her sorrow was much deeper than mona's. john darbie tactfully kept his tongue quiet, and his eyes fixed on the scenery. he understood that his old friend was suffering, and would want to be left alone for a while. so, for the first part of the way, they jogged along in silence, except for the scrunching of the gravel beneath the wheels, and the steady thud, thud of the old horse's hoofs, granny barnes looking forward with sad stern eyes, and a heart full of dread; mona looking back through tears, but with hope in her heart; the old driver staring thoughtfully before him at the familiar way, along which he had driven so many, old and young; happy and sad, some willing, some unwilling, some hopeful, others despondent. the old man felt for each and all of them, and helped them on their way, as far as he might travel it with them, and sent many a kind thought after them, which they never knew of.

"i suppose," he said at last, speaking his thoughts aloud, "in every change we can find some happiness. there's always something we can do for somebody. so far as i can see, there's good to be got out of most things."

mrs. barnes' gaze came back from the wide-stretching scene beside her, and rested enquiringly on the old speaker. "do 'ee think so?" she asked eagerly. "'tis dreadful to be filled with doubts about what you're doing," she added pathetically.

"don't 'ee doubt, ma'am. once you've weighed the matter and looked at it every way, and have at last made up your mind, don't you let yourself harbour any doubts. act as if you hadn't got any choice, and go straight ahead."

"but how is anyone to know? it may be that one took the way 'cause it was the easiest."

"very often it's the easiest way 'cause it's the way the lord has opened for us," said the old man simply, and with perfect faith. "then i count it we're doubting him if we go on questioning."

the look of strained anxiety in granny barnes' eyes had already given way to one more peaceful and contented.

"i hadn't thought of that," she said softly, and presently she added, "it takes a load off one's mind if one looks at it that way."

mona, who had been listening too, found john darbie's words repeating themselves over and over again in her mind. "there's always something we can do—there's good to be got out of most things." they set themselves to the rhythm of the old horse's slow steps—"there is always something— there is always something—we can do—we can do, there is always something we can do."

throughout that long, slow journey on that sunshiny day they rang in her head, and her heart chanted them. and though in the years that followed she often forgot her good resolutions, and many and many a time did wrong and foolish things, knowing them to be wrong and foolish, though she let herself be swayed by her moods, when she should have fought against them, she never entirely forgot old john darbie's simple, comforting words, nor the lesson they had taught her that day, and unconsciously they helped her on her life's road, just as he himself helped her along her road to her new home.

there was indeed a great deal that she could do, as she discovered presently, when the van deposited them and their parcels at the door of their new home, for the furniture had arrived but a couple of hours earlier, and though her father and the man had lifted most of the heavier things into their places, and lucy had done all that she could to make the little house look habitable, there was much that mona, knowing her grandmother's ways as well as she did, could do better than anyone else.

as soon as the van drew near, lucy was at the door to greet them, and in the warmth and pleasure of her welcome, mona entirely forgot the circumstances under which they had last parted: and it never once occurred to her to think how different their meeting might have been had lucy not been of the sweet-tempered forgiving nature that she was.

lucy had forgotten too. she only remembered how glad she was to have them there, and what a trying day it must have been for poor old granny barnes. and when, instead of the stern, cold, complaining old woman that she had expected, she saw a fragile, pale-faced little figure, standing looking forlorn, weary, and half-frightened on the path outside her new home, lucy quite forgot her dread of her, and her whole heart went out in sympathy.

putting her arms round her, she kissed her as warmly as though it had been her own mother, and led her tenderly into the house.

"don't you trouble about a single thing more, granny, there are plenty of us to see to everything. the fire is burning, and your own armchair is put by it, and all you've got to do is to sit there till you're rested and tell us others what you'd like done."

granny barnes did not speak, but lucy understood. she took up the poker and stirred the coals to a more cheerful blaze. "it's a fine little stove to burn," she said cheerfully, "and it is as easy as possible to light."

granny was interested at once, "is it? how beautiful and bright it is. did you do that, lucy?"

lucy nodded. "i love polishing up a stove," she said with a smile, "it repays you so for the trouble you take. don't you think so?"

"yes, i used to spend hours over mine, but i don't seem to have the strength now. mona does very well though. where's peter? out fishing?"

"no, he's upstairs putting up your bed. he has nearly done. mona's is up already. you've got a sweet little room, mona. you'll love it, i know."

mona ran upstairs at once to inspect. she was bubbling over with excitement and happiness. her room was, she knew, at the back of the house, so she went to it straight. it was in a great muddle, of course, but the bed was in place, and the chest of drawers. the walls had been newly papered, the paper had little bunches of field daisies all over it, white and red-tipped, each bunch was tied with a blade of green grass. mona thought it perfectly exquisite, but it was the window which took her fancy captive. it was a lattice window, cut deep in the wall, and before it was a seat wide enough for mona to sit in—and beyond the window was the sea!

"i'll be able to sit there, and read, and sew, and watch the boats going by," she thought delightedly, "and i'll have little muslin curtains tied back with ribbons, and a flounce of muslin across the top. oh, i shall love it up here! i shall never want to go out. it's nicer even than my room at father's, and ever so much nicer than the 'hillside' one!"

a sound of hammering and banging came from the other side of the tiny landing.

"that must be father, putting up granny's bed," she hurried out, and across to him. he had just finished, and was pushing the bed into place. two great bundles tied up in sheets filled up most of the rest of the floor. one held granny barnes' feather-tie, the other her pillow-cases, sheets and blankets.

"i do hope your grandmother'll be well and comfortable here," he said anxiously, "and happy. if it rests with us to make her so, she shall be. mona, you'd better make up her bed soon. don't leave it for her to do herself. she'll most likely be glad to go to bed early to-night, she must be tired. there's no moving round the room, either, with those great bundles there. i'll lift the feather-tie on to the bed for you."

"all right—in a minute, father."

granny's bedroom window looked out on the hill. further up the hill, on the opposite side, was cliff cottage. it could be just seen from granny's new home. how small and strange it all looked, thought mona, and how narrow the hill was, but how homelike and beautiful.

while she gazed out millie higgins and philippa luxmore appeared, they were coming down the hill together. millie had on a pink dress almost exactly like mona's.

"why—why, she's copied me!" thought mona indignantly, a wave of hot anger surging up in her heart. "she's a regular copy-cat! she can't think of a thing for herself, but directly anyone else has it, she must go and copy them. i'd be ashamed if i was her. now i shan't like my pink frock any more!"

as though attracted by the gaze on her, millie looked up at the window, and straight into mona's eyes, but instead of feeling any shame, she only laughed. she may not have remembered her own frock, or mona's, she was probably not laughing at mona's annoyance, it is very likely that she was amused at something she and philippa were talking about, but mona thought otherwise, and only glared back at her with angry, contemptuous eyes. she saw millie's face change, and saw her whisper in philippa's ear, then she heard them both laugh, and her heart was fuller than ever of hatred, and mortification. mortification with herself partly, for allowing millie to see that she was vexed.

oh, how she wished now, that instead of letting millie see how she had annoyed her, she had acted as though she did not notice, or did not mind.

"mona, give me a hand here a minute, will you?" her father's voice broke in on her musings, "that rope is caught round the bedpost."

mona went over, and released the rope, but returned again to the window.

"if you don't bustle round, little maid, we shall never be done," said her father. "i want to get it all as right as i can before i go, or your grand-mother'll be doing it herself, and making herself ill again. you can look out of window another day, there'll be plenty of time for that."

"i'm tired," grumbled mona sulkily, "i can't be always working."

her father straightened his back, and looked at her. his eyes were reproachful and grieved. mona's own eyes fell before them. already she was sorry that she had spoken so. she did not feel in the least as she had said she did. she was put out about millie, and millie's frock, that was all.

"mona, my girl," he said gravely, "you put me in mind of a weather-cock in a shifty wind. nobody can tell for half an hour together what quarter it'll be pointing to. 'tis the shifty wind that does the most mischief and is hardest to bear with. when you came in just now, i'd have said you were pointing straight south, but a few minutes later you've veered right round to the north-east. what's the meaning of it, child? what's the matter with 'ee. it doesn't give 'ee much pleasure to know you're spoiling everybody else's, does it?"

mona gulped down her tears. "no—o, i—i—it was millie higgins' fault. she's been and got a dress——" and then she suddenly felt ashamed of herself, and ashamed to repeat anything so petty, and she gulped again, and this time she swallowed her bad temper too. "no—i'm—i'm 'set fair' now, father!" she added, and, though there was a choke in her voice, as though her temper was rather hard to swallow, there was a smile in her eyes, and in a very little while granny's feather-bed was shaken up as soft and smooth as ever granny herself could have made it, and the bed was made up. and then by degrees everything in the room was got into place just as its mistress liked it, so that when granny came up later on and saw her new room, she exclaimed aloud in pleased surprise:

"why, it looks like home already," she cried, "and that's our mona's doing, i know!"