mona sat reading, curled upon the window seat in her bedroom. she spent a great deal of her time there. sometimes sewing, but more often either reading, or looking out at the view. for a few days she had been busy making curtains for her window, and a frill to go across the top, and, as granny had firmly refused to buy wide pink ribbon to fasten back the curtains, mona had hemmed long strips of some of the print left over from her own pink dress.

but all this was done now, and mona was very proud of her handiwork. the frill was a little deeper on one side than the other, but that was a trifle. mona thought that the whole effect was very smart; so smart, indeed, that she sometimes wished that her window was in the front of the house, so that people going up and down the hill might see it. "but i s'pose one can't have everything," she concluded, with a sigh.

granny's window, which did look out on the hill, was anything but smart, for she had had neither time nor strength to make her curtains, and mona had not offered to make them for her.

granny had gone up to lucy's that very afternoon, and taken them with her, hoping to work at them a little while she talked. she often went up to sit with lucy. perhaps she found it dull at home, with mona always shut up in her own room. lucy's garden delighted her too. she had none herself that could compare with it. in the front there was a tiny patch close under her window, and there was a long strip at the back, but only a very few things had the courage to grow there, for the wind caught it, and the salt sea-spray came up over it, and blighted every speck of green that had the courage to put its head out. lucy's garden and lucy's kitchen both delighted her. she said the kitchen was more cheerful than hers, but it was really lucy's presence that made it so. lucy was always so pleased to see her, so ready to listen to her stories, or to tell her own, if granny was too tired to talk. she always listened to her advice, too, which was quite a new experience to mrs. barnes.

this afternoon, while granny was talking, and taking a stitch occasionally, lucy picked up the other curtain and made it. it was not a very big matter; all the windows in seacombe houses were small. then she put on the kettle, and while it was boiling she took the other curtain from granny's frail hand and worked away at that too. the weather was hot, and the door stood wide open, letting in the mingled scents of the many sweet flowers which filled every foot of the garden. a sweet-brier bush stood near the window, great clumps of stocks, mignonette and verbenas lined the path to the gate.

"i didn't mean to stay to tea," said granny, realizing at last that lucy was preparing some for her. "i was going to get home in time."

"mona won't have got it, will she?"

"oh, no, she won't think about it, i expect. she has got a book, and when she's reading she's lost to everything. i never knew a child so fond of reading."

"you spoil her, granny! you let her have her own way too much."

then they both laughed, for each accused the other of 'spoiling' mona.

"i don't like her to work too hard," said granny. "she'd got to look very thin and delicate. i think she's looking better, though, don't you?"

"yes, ever so much," lucy reassured her, and granny's face brightened.

mona, meanwhile, went on reading, lost, as granny said, to everything but her book. she did not even look out to sea. she heard no sound either in the house or out. heart and mind she was with the people of the story. she was living their life.

the baker came and knocked two or three times; then, opening the door, put a loaf on the table, and went away. then presently came more knocking, and more, but none of it reached mona's brain. she was flying with the heroine, and enjoying hairbreadth escapes, while running away from her wicked guardian, when her bedroom door was flung open, and millie higgins—not the wicked guardian—appeared on the threshold.

mona gave a little cry of alarm, then immediately grew angry with herself for having let millie see that she had startled her.

"what are you doing up here?" she demanded, bluntly. "who told you to come up? granny isn't in, is she?"

millie laughed. "if your grandmother had been in i should have been at the other end of the street by this time. i've no fancy for facing dragons in their caves."

"don't be rude," retorted mona, colouring with anger. millie always laughed at mrs. barnes, because she was old-fashioned in her dress and ways. "how did you get in, and why did you come? if granny didn't send you up, you'd no right to come. it's like your cheek, millie higgins, to go forcing your way into other people's houses!"

"it's like your carelessness to shut yourself up with a story-book and leave your front door open. i ain't the first that has been in! wouldn't your grandmother be pleased if she knew how trustworthy her dear, good little mona was."

mona looked frightened, and millie noticed it. "what do you mean, millie?"

millie had seen the baker come, knock, open the door, and leave again after depositing a loaf on the table. she had also seen mrs. barnes comfortably settled in lucy carne's kitchen, and she determined to have some fun. she loved teasing and annoying everyone she could.

"come down and see what they've done. at any rate, you might be civil to anyone who comes in to warn you before any more harm is done."

mona, still looking alarmed, slipped from the window-seat and followed millie down the stairs.

while she stood at the foot of them, glancing about her anxiously, millie stepped over and shut the house door.

"where?—what?—i don't see anything wrong," said mona. millie burst into mocking laughter. "i don't suppose you do! silly-billy, cock-a-dilly, how's your mother, little mona! why, how stupid you are! anyone can get a rise out of you! i only wanted to frighten you and get you downstairs. you're going to ask me to tea now, and give me a nice one, too, aren't you?"

mona was trembling with mortification and anger. "no, i am not," she said, "and if you don't go out of here in a minute i'll—i'll——"

"oh, no—you won't, dear. you couldn't if you wanted to—but you don't really want to, i know. now poke up the fire and get me some tea. i hope you have something nice to eat."

mona stood by the dressers, her thoughts flying wildly through her brain. what could she do? millie was taller, older, and stronger than herself, so she could not seize her, and put her out by force. mona knew, too, that she would not listen to pleading or to coaxing.

"oh, if only someone would come!" she made a move towards the door, but millie was too quick for her, and got between her and it.

"millie, you've got to go away. you'll get me into an awful row if you are found here, and—and i can't think how you can push yourself in where you ain't wanted."

"oh, fie! little girls shouldn't be rude—it shows they haven't been properly brought up."

mona did not answer. she was trying to think what she could do. if she went out of the house would millie follow?

millie picked up a newspaper, and pretended to read it, but over the top of it she was watching mona all the time. she loved teasing, and she thought she had power to make younger girls do just as she wished. but mona stood leaning against the dressers, showing no sign of giving in.

millie grew impatient. "wake up, can't you!" she cried, and, picking up a cushion from an armchair beside her, she threw it across the room at mona. "i want my tea!"

the cushion flew past mona without touching her, but it fell full crash against the china on the dressers behind her. mona screamed, and tried to catch what she could of the falling things. cups, plate, jugs came rolling down on the top of those below. what could one pair of small hands do to save them!

the set, a tea-set, and her grandmother's most treasured possession, had been kept for a hundred years without a chip or a crack. it had been her grandmother's and her great-grandmother's before that.

mona, white to the lips, and trembling, stood like an image of despair. her hands were cut, but she did not notice that. millie was pale, too, and really frightened, though she tried to brazen it out. "now there'll be a fine old row, and you will be in it, mona carne. it was all your fault, you know."

but mona felt no fear for herself yet. she could think of nothing but her grandmother's grief when she learned of the calamity which had befallen her. somebody had to break the news to her, too, and that somebody would have to be herself. mona leaned her elbows on the dressers amongst the broken china and, burying her face in her hands, burst into a torrent of tears.

millie spoke to her once or twice, but mona could not reply. "well, if she won't open her lips, i might as well go," thought millie, and, creeping out of the front door, she hurried away down the hill, only too delighted to have got away so easily.

mona heard her go, but made no effort to stop her. she felt too utterly miserable even to reproach her.

presently other footsteps came to the door, followed by a gentle knocking. mona, in consternation, straightened herself and wiped her eyes. "who can it be? i can't go to the door like this!" her face was crimson, and her eyes were nearly closed, they were so swelled.

the knock was repeated. "mona, may i come in?" it was patty row's voice. mona was fond of patty, and she had begun to long for sympathy and advice.

"cub id," she called out as well as she could. "cub id, paddy." patty opened the door. "what a dreadful cold you've got," she said, sympathetically. "i've just seen your grandmother, and she asked me to tell you she's having tea with lucy." mona turned and faced her.

"why!—why! mona! oh, my! whatever is the matter?"

mona's tears began again, nearly preventing her explanation. "millie higgins came in, and—and got teasing me, and—and——"

"i've just seen her hurrying home," cried patty. "i thought she came out from here. what has she done, mona? she's always bullying somebody."

"she—she threw the cushion at me, 'cause—'cause i didn't get her some tea, and—oh, patty, what shall i do?—just look at what she has done. that tea-set was more than a hundred years old, and—and granny thinks the world of it—and i've got to tell her." mona's voice rose to a pitiful wail. "oh, my. i wish—i wish i was dead. i wish——"

"that'd only be another great trouble for her to bear," said wise little patty, soberly. "millie ought to tell her, of course. it's her doing. p'raps that is where she has gone."

mona shook her head. she had no hope of millie's doing that.

"well," said patty, in her determined little way, "if she doesn't it shan't be for want of being told that she ought to."

"she'll never do it," said mona, hopelessly. "i'll have to bear the blame. i can't sneak on millie, and—and so granny'll always think i did it."

patty pursed up her pretty lips. "will she?" she thought to herself. "she won't if i can help it," but she did not say so aloud. "let's sort it out, and see how much really is broken," she said, lifting off the fatal cushion. "p'raps it isn't as bad as it looks."

mona shook her head despondently. "it sounded as if every bit was smashed. there's one cup in half, and a plate with a piece out—no, those jugs were common ones, they don't matter so much," as patty picked up a couple, one with its handle off, the other all in pieces. "here's a cup without any handle—oh, poor granny, it'll break her heart, and—and she'll never forgive me. i don't see how she can. oh, patty! did anybody in all the world ever have such a trouble before?"

"i shouldn't be surprised," said patty. "there, that's the lot, mona. it's bad enough, but not so bad as it seemed at first. there's two cups, a plate, and a saucer of the set broken. two jugs, a basin, and a plate of the common things."

she put the broken bits of the tea-set on the table, and began to arrange what was left on the dressers, so as to conceal the painful gaps. "there, it doesn't look so dreadful now. what had we better do next, mona?"

mona turned away and dropped into granny's big chair. "i—i've got to tell her, that's what i'd better do next!" she cried. she flung her arms out on the table, and buried her face in them, sobbing aloud in her misery.

patty, alarmed at her grief, went over and put her arms around her shaking shoulders. "mona!—mona, dear, don't cry so. you'll be ill. i'll go and tell mrs. barnes about it, and—and i'll tell her it wasn't your fault."

a slight sound made them both look towards the door—and they saw that there was no longer any need for anyone to break the news. granny barnes knew it already.

for what seemed to the two girls minutes and minutes, no one uttered a word. granny with wide eyes and stricken face, stood staring at her broken treasures, and the two girls stared at granny. all three faces were tragic. at last she came slowly forward, and took up one of the broken pieces. her poor old hands were shaking uncontrollably.

mona sprang to her, and flung her arms about her. "oh, granny, granny, what can i do? it—was an accident—i mean, i couldn't help it. oh, i'd sooner anything had happened to me than to your tea-set."

patty row slipped out of the house, and gently closed the door behind her. she had meant to stay and speak up for mona, but something told her that there would be no need for that.

poor mrs. barnes dropped heavily into her seat. "i wouldn't then, dear. there's worse disasters than—than broken china."

mona's sobs ceased abruptly. she was so astonished at her grandmother's manner of taking her trouble, she could scarcely believe her senses. "but i—i thought you prized it so, granny—above everything?"

"so i did," said granny, pathetically. "i think i prized it too much, but when you get old, child, and—and the end of life's journey is in sight, you—you—well, somehow, these things don't seem to matter so much. 'tis you will be the loser, dearie. when i'm gone the things will be yours. i've had a good many years with my old treasures for company, so i can't complain."

mona stood looking at her grandmother with a dawning fear on her face. "granny, you ain't ill, are you? you don't feel bad, do you?"

mrs. barnes shook her head. "no, i ain't ill, only a bit tired. it's just that the things that used to matter don't seem to, now, and those that—that, well, those that did seem to me to come second, they matter most—they seem to be the only ones that matter at all."

patty row had done well to go away and leave the two alone just then. granny, with a new sense of peace resting on her, which even the loss of her cherished treasures could not disturb, and mona, with a strange seriousness, a foreboding of coming trouble on her, which awakened her heart to a new sympathy.

"why, child, how you must have cried to swell your eyes up like that." granny, rousing herself at last out of a day-dream, for the first time noticed poor mona's face. "isn't your head aching?"

"oh, dreadfully," sighed mona, realizing for the first time how acute the pain was.

"didn't i see patty here when i came in? where has she gone?"

"i don't know."

"patty didn't break the things, did she?"

"oh, no."

"did she tell you what she came about?"

"to tell me you were having tea with mother."

"but there was more than that. she came to ask if you'd go to sunday school with her on sunday. her teacher told her to ask you. you used to go, didn't you? why have you given it up?"

mona nodded, but she coloured a little. "i thought the girls—all knew about—about my running away."

"i don't think they do—but i don't see that that matters. you'd like to go again, wouldn't you?"

"yes, i'd like to go with patty. miss lester's her teacher, and they've got a library belonging to their class. you can have a book every week to bring home." mona's face grew quite bright, but a faint shadow had crept over granny's.

"you read a lot, mona. so many stories and things ain't good for you. do you ever read your bible?"

mona looked surprised. "n—no. i haven't got it here. it's up at lucy's."

mrs. barnes groaned. "oh, child, to think of our not having a bible in the house between us!"

"there's the fam'ly bible back there," said mona, quickly, feeling suddenly that a house without a bible in it was not safe.

"yes—but it's never opened, not even to look at the pictures. if you had one in every room in the house you wouldn't be any the better for it if you never read them, and—and acted 'pon what you're taught there."

"but if you can't see to read," said mona, trying to find excuses, "what's the good of your having a bible?"

"but you can see, and can read too, and i could till lately, and, anyway, you can read to me, and that's what i ought to have got you to do. i feel i haven't done my duty by you, child."

mona threw up her head. "i don't s'pose we're any worse than some that read their bibles every day," she said, complacently. she had often heard others say that, and thought it rather fine.

"that's not for you or me to say," retorted granny sternly. "that's the excuse folks always bring out when they ain't ashamed of themselves, but ought to be. if we ain't any worse, we ain't any better, and until we are we've no right to speak of others; and if we are—why, we shouldn't think of doing so. most folks, though, who say that, do think themselves a deal better than others, though they don't say so in as many words."

mona stood staring into the fire, thinking matters over. she was very apt to take things to herself, and she was trying to assure herself that she never did think herself better than others—not better even than millie higgins. but she was not very well satisfied with the result.

granny's voice died away, the sun went down, and the room began to grow dim. two lumps of coal fell together, and, bursting into a blaze, roused mona from her reverie. she turned quickly, and found her grandmother gazing at the two halves of the broken tea-cup which she held in her hands. in the light of the fire tears glistened on her cheeks.

mona felt a sudden great longing to comfort her, to make life happier for her. "granny, would you have liked me to have read some of my books to you sometimes?"

"very much, dearie. i always loved a nice story."

"oh—why ever didn't you say so before." the words broke from mona like a cry of reproach. "i didn't know, i never thought—i thought you'd think them silly or—or—something."

"i know—it wasn't your fault. sometimes i think it'd be better if we asked more of each other, and didn't try to be so independent. it's those that you do most for that you care most for—and miss most when they're gone!" added granny, half under her breath.

once again mona was struck by the curious change in granny's tone and manner, and felt a depressing sense of foreboding.

"would you like me to read to you now, granny? out of—of the bible?" she hesitated, as though shy of even speaking the name.

"yes, dearie, i'd dearly love to hear the 86th psalm."

mona hurriedly lifted the big book out from under the mats and odds and ends that were arranged on its side. she had never read aloud from the bible before, and at any other time her shyness would have almost overcome her. to-day, though, she was possessed with a feeling that in the bible she would perhaps find something that would rouse and cheer granny, and charm her own fears away, and she was in a hurry to get it and begin.