when poor lucy carne next opened her eyes and came back with a sigh to the horrors and suffering of which she had for a time been mercifully unconscious, her first thought was for her husband.

"has the boat come in? did the storm die down?—or did it get worse? has anyone heard or seen anything of my husband?" she panted feebly. but before they could answer her, she had floated off again into a troubled delirium.

"oh, the wind! oh, the awful wind!" she kept on repeating. "oh, can't anything stop it! it's fanning the flames to fury; it's blowing them towards granny's room. oh, the noise—i must find her—i must save her— she's so feeble. oh, granny! granny!" her voice would end in a scream, followed by a burst of tears; then she would begin again.

once or twice she had recovered consciousness, and then had asked for her husband or mona. "is she badly hurt?—will she get over it?"

the nurse soothed and comforted her, and did all she could. "she isn't conscious yet, but they think she will be soon. she's got slight concussion, and she has cut herself a bit—but she will do all right if she gets over the shock. they are keeping her very quiet; it is the only way. you must try not to scream and call out, dear. for if she began to come round and heard you, it might be very, very serious for her."

after that lucy lay trying hard to keep fast hold of her senses. "don't let me scream!" she pleaded. "put something over my head if i begin. i can keep myself quiet as long as i have my senses—but when they drift away—i—don't know what i do. i didn't know i made a noise. oh—h—h!" as some slight movement racked her with pain.

"poor dear," said nurse. "i expect you're feeling your bruises now, and your leg."

"i seem to be one big lump of pain," sighed poor lucy. "but i don't mind if only mona pulls through, and peter is safe. oh, my poor husband—what a home-coming!"

"now try not to dwell on it. you'll only get yourself worse, and for his sake, poor man, you ought to try and get well as fast as you can. there, look at those flowers patty row has brought you. aren't they sweet!"

"oh, my!" lucy drew in deep breaths of their fragrance. "stocks, and sweet-brier—oh, how lovely! they'll help to take away the—smell of the burning." then her mind seemed to float away again, but not this time through a raging furnace, but through sweet-scented gardens, and sunlight, and soft pure air.

when she came back to the hospital ward again, nurse smiled at her with eyes full of pleasure. "i've good news for you," she said, bending low, so that her words might quite reach the poor dazed brain. "your husband is safe!"

"oh, thank god! thank god!" her eyes swam in tears of joy. "does—he know?" she asked a moment later, her face full of anxiety. the thought of his sad home-coming was anguish to her.

nurse nodded. "yes, dear, he knows. the vicar went to baymouth by the first train and brought him back. he did not want him to have the news blurted out to him without any preparation."

"how very kind! how is he? peter, i mean. is he feeling it very badly? oh, i wish i could be there to help him, to comfort him. he'll be so lonely—and there will be so much to do."

"my dear, he won't want for help. everyone is ready and anxious to do what they can. of course, he is upset. he wouldn't be the man he is if he wasn't. it is all a terrible shock to him! but it might have been so much worse. he is so thankful that you and mona are safe. he doesn't give a single thought to himself."

"he never does," said lucy, half-smiling, half-weeping. "that's why he needs me to take thought of him. when may i see him, nurse?"

"that's what he is asking. if you keep very quiet now, and have a nice sleep, perhaps you'll be strong enough for just a peep at him when you wake up."

"i'll lie still, and be very quiet, but i can't promise to sleep." she did sleep, though, in spite of herself, for when next she turned her head to see if the hands of the clock had moved at all, she found her husband sitting beside her, smiling at her.

"why, however did you get here, dear? i never saw you come—nor heard a sound."

"i reckon i must have growed up out of the floor," said peter, bending to kiss her. "well, my girl, this isn't where i expected to see 'ee when i came back—but i'm so thankful to find you at all, i can't think of anything else."

"oh, my dear, i'm so glad you've come," she cried, clinging to him passionately. "i never thought we should meet again in this world. oh! peter—what we've been through! oh! that night! that awful night!"

he patted her soothingly, holding her hand in his. "i know, i know—but you must try not to dwell on it. if you throw yourself back, i shan't be allowed to come again."

lucy put a great restraint upon herself. "they've told you:—poor granny is dead?" she whispered, but more calmly.

"yes—they've told me. i believe i know the worst now. i've one bit of comfort, though, for all of us. i've just seen the doctor, and he says she was dead before the fire reached her. she must have died almost as soon as she lay down."

then lucy broke down and wept from sheer relief. "oh, thank god," she said, fervently, "for taking her to himself, and sparing her the horrors of that awful night. thank him, too, for mona's sake. the thought that granny perished in the fire because no one reached her in time would have been the worst of all the thoughts weighing on her mind. she will be spared that now."

at that moment, though, mona was troubled by no thoughts at all. she lay in her bed in the ward just as they had placed her there hours before, absolutely unconscious. if it had not been for the faint beating of her heart she might have been taken for dead. doctors came and looked at her and went away again, the day nurses went off duty, and the night nurses came on and went off again, but still she showed no sign of life. with her head and her arms swathed in bandages, she lay with her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. it was not until the following day, the day granny barnes was laid to rest in the little churchyard on the hill, that she opened her eyes on this world once more, and glanced about her, dazed and bewildered.

"where?" she began. but before she had finished her sentence, her eyes closed.

this time, though, it was not unconsciousness, but sleep that she drifted off into, and it was not until afternoon that she opened her eyes once more.

"where am i?" she completed her question this time. then, at the sight of a nurse in uniform, a look of alarm crept into her eyes.

"where are you, dear? why, here in hospital, being taken care of, and your mother is here, too."

"mother."

"yes, and we are looking after you so well! you are both better already."

the cheerful voice and smile, the kindly face, drove all mona's fears away at once, and for ever. but, as memory returned, other fears took their place.

"is—mother—hurt?"

"yes—but, oh, not nearly as badly as she might have been. she will be well again soon. you shall go into the ward with her when you are a little better. you must keep very quiet now, and not talk."

"but—granny—and father?" faltered mona. "i must know—i can't rest— till—i do."

for a moment the nurse hesitated. it was very difficult to know what to do for the best. "she will only fret and worry if i don't tell her, and imagine things worse than they are," she thought to herself.

"your father is home, and safe and well. you shall see him soon. your poor granny is safe, too, dear, and well. so well, she will never suffer any more."

"they—let her—die——"

"no one let her die, dear. she had died in her sleep before the fire broke out. she was mercifully spared that—and isn't that something to be thankful for, mona? there, there, don't cry, dear. you mustn't cry, or you will be ill again, and, for your father's and mother's sake, you must try and get well. your father wants you home to take care of him until your mother can come. think of him, dear, and how badly he needs you, and try your best to get better. he is longing to come to see you."

mercifully for mona, she was too weak to weep much, or even to think, and before very long she had sunk into an exhausted sleep. mercifully, too, perhaps, in the horror of her awakening, that terrible night, and the distracting hours that followed, it never entered her head that it was she who had brought about the disaster. it was not till later that that dreadful truth came home to her, to be repented of through years of bitter regret.

the next day her father came to see her, and a few days after that she was carried into the adjoining ward and put into the bed next to her mother.

that was a great step forward. for the first time a ray of sunshine penetrated the heavy cloud of sorrow which had overshadowed them all.

"keep them both as cheerful as possible," the doctor had said, "and don't let them dwell on the tragedy if you can help it." so every day a visitor came to see them—miss grace lester, mrs. row, and patty, millie higgins, and philippa—and as they all brought flowers and fruit, the little ward became a perfect garden, gay with bright colours and sweet scents.

miss grace brought a book for mona, and a soft, warm shawl for lucy. they were delighted. "and please, miss," said lucy, "may i give you my best wishes for your happiness? we heard you were going to be married before so very long."

grace lester blushed prettily. "yes, but not till next spring," she said. "thank you for your good wishes, mrs. carne. it was very sweet of you to remember me through all the troubles you have been through lately. i am so glad my new home will be in seacombe, where i know and love everyone. i should have been very grieved if i had had to leave it. mona, what are you thinking about, to make you look so excited? you know the doctor ordered you to keep calm! i don't know what he would say if he saw you now. he would blame me for exciting you, and i should never be allowed to come again."

"oh, miss grace, i am calm—i really am. i won't be excited, i won't be ill, but, oh, i must tell you—i thought of something as soon as ever i heard there was to be a wedding—and oh, i wish you would—i am sure it would be lovely. we want—all your sunday school girls, i mean, miss grace—to be allowed to come and strew flowers in your path as you come out of church, and we'd all be dressed in white, and—and some would have pink, and some blue in their hats, and—oh, miss grace, do please think about it and try and say 'yes!'"

grace lester's eyes were misty with happy tears by the time mona had done. "why, you nice, kind children," she cried, "to have such plans for making my wedding day beautiful and happy! i had not thought of anything so charming."

for a few moments she sat silent, thinking deeply, and mona lay back on her pillow watching her face. "would she consent—oh, would she? it would almost be too lovely, though," she concluded. "it could not really come true."

"mona," said miss grace at last. "do you know what i thought you might be going to ask?"

mona shook her head, her eyes were full of questioning.

"i thought, perhaps, you were going to ask if you might come and be my little housemaid in my new home!"

"oh—h—h!" mona and her mother both exclaimed aloud and in the same tone of delight. "oh, miss grace!" mona sprang up in her bed and clapped her hands, bandages and all. "oh, miss grace! do you really mean it? that would be better than anything, because that would be for always. oh, mother," turning to lucy, her face radiant, "wouldn't that be lovely!"

"lovely," said lucy, her eyes full of deep pleasure. "i wouldn't ask for anything better for you, mona. i think—i know, it'll be the best that can possibly happen."

"how very nice of you, mrs. carne." grace lester pressed lucy's hand. "you make me feel—very, very proud—but—well, i will try to do my best for her. good-bye. i must not stay any longer now, or nurse will be coming to scold me, but," with a smile, "i must just stay long enough to say i engage mona now to come to me in april. we will talk about wages and uniform, and all those things later on, when you are both stronger, and i have had time to think. now, good-bye—and mona, don't keep your mother awake, or i shall be in everyone's bad books."

"oh, i'm as excited as she is, i think," said lucy, smiling up at mona's future mistress, "and it will be a real pleasure to me to teach her and get her as ready as i can—and i can't tell you, miss, how pleased her father'll be that she is going where she will be so happy and well looked after."

grace lester clasped lucy's hand again. "it will be a great pleasure to me to have her," she said warmly, "and, trained by you, i know she will be a comfort to any mistress."

with this new interest to lift her thoughts from her troubles, mona regained health so rapidly that she was able to leave the hospital sooner than anyone had dared to hope. poor lucy, who had to stay there some weeks longer, watched her departure with tearful eyes. "i shall feel lonely without you, dear," she said, "but for your own sake, and father's, i am glad you are going home. you will look after him, won't you, and see to his comforts—and i'll be back in about three weeks, they say, though i'll have to go about on crutches for a bit."

"oh, yes, i'll look after father. don't you worry, mother, i'll see to things," mona reassured her.

"i expect you will find the house in a pretty mess, and the garden too. when i ran out that night, i little thought i wouldn't be back for nigh on two months. it's a lesson to one to be always prepared."

"don't you worry, mother, we'll soon get it all straight again. i am sure your place was tidier than any other in seacombe would be, left in a hurry like that, and in the middle of the night."

"but, mona, you mustn't do too much." lucy's anxieties took a new direction. she knew how mona could, and would work, when she was in the mood to. "don't be doing too much and making yourself ill. that would trouble me ever so much more than having the house untidy. you leave it all till i come home. when i am able to move about again i'll soon get things nice."

mona nodded, with a laugh in her eyes. "why, of course, everything will be scrubbed inside and out, top and bottom, when you get home to do it, mother." but in her mind she added, "if you can find anything needing it."

then she kissed her 'good-bye,' promising to come again soon. "and i'll take her a few flowers out of her own garden," she thought. "she will love that better than anything. but i expect the garden has run wild by this time."

she did not say as much to her mother, for she had learnt how much such thoughts worried her; but she did to her father when he came to fetch her. he only smiled though. "you wait till you see it, my girl," he said mysteriously, "then you'll know how things have gone since you have been away."

"there!" triumphantly, when they presently drew up at the gate. "do you say now that a poor lone man can't keep his place tidy while his women-folk are away!" and mona stared, wide-eyed with surprise, for, instead of bushes all beaten down and tangled, weedy paths, and stripped flower beds, as she had pictured, the whole garden seemed full. geraniums, phlox, mignonette, roses, snapdragons, and pansies made the beds gay, while at the back of them great bushes of michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums stood erect, neatly tied up to stakes.

"but how?—who—whenever did you find time, father?"

"i've never put a hand to it."

"then it must have been the fairies," she laughed. "flowers may grow by themselves, but paths can't pull up their own weeds—i wish they could— nor bushes tie themselves up to stakes."

her father laughed too. "well, never having seen a fairy, i can't contradict. but i'm bound to say that matthew luxmore was never my idea of one."

"mr. luxmore?"

"yes, he's come two and three times a week, all the time your mother's been in hospital, and tended the garden the same as if it had been his own. don't you call that acting the real christian?"

"i do. oh, father, i wish mother could see it. wouldn't it make her happy." mona was touched almost to tears. "and doesn't it make you want to do something nice for people in return! but everybody has been so kind i don't know where to begin."

"the only way to begin," said peter carne, as he led mona slowly up the path, "is to take the first oppertoonity that comes along of doing a kindness to one of them, and to keep on taking all the oppertoonities you can. i know that the folks that have been good to us would be cut to the heart if we were to talk about returns. you can't return such things as they've done for us. you can only let them know how grateful you are. and if a chance comes of doing anything for them—why, do it. now, you come along in, my girl, and sit down. you've done enough for one while. you've got to sit there and rest while i make you a cup of tea. that's right, the fire's just proper for making a nice bit of toast."

mona sank down in the arm-chair, and stared about her in speechless surprise. "why, it's like a palace! i came home meaning to clean it from top to bottom, and there's nothing for me to do. has mr. luxmore been acting the fairy here too, father!"

"no, the fairies in this department were a smaller sort, and more like my idea of fairies. it's millie higgins and patty that have set this all to rights for you. they came and begged of me to let them, till i couldn't refuse any longer. patty's mother has cooked for me and looked after me all the time. there never was such folk as seacombe folk i'm certain sure. there, there's a nice bit of toast for you, child, and the kettle just going to boil right out over our shining fender. we'll have a cup of tea in a brace of shakes now. then you will feel like a new woman."

"i do that already," said mona. "i mean," she added softly, "i am going to try to be, father."