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Grace’s appearance with maternal criticism, smoothing a wrinkle in Grace’s frock here and there with deft touches.

“I’m glad I had the courage to speak to you down in the dining-room,” she added, “although it was terribly presumptuous of me. But you did look as though you needed a friend. You will believe I’m your friend?”

Grace did believe it, and said so gratefully.

“That’s all right, then,” said the old lady, fussily urging Grace to the door. “Now, run along and do your shopping, and if you’re not back for lunch———”

“I’ll be back for lunch,” Grace assured her, “I’ll catch the twelve o’clock bus from Hastings. I couldn’t think of foisting Joan upon you all day. It’s awfully kind of you to———”

“Not a bit of it, my dear. I’d be delighted to look after the child. You mustn’t hurry on my account. Joan will be quite happy with me. Won’t you, dear?” she added, turning to run her fingers through Joan’s curls.

“No,” answered Joan, bluntly, shaking her head irritably at the old lady’s touch.

“Joan!” expostulated Grace.

“Why not?” asked Miss Whipple, smiling in amusement.

“I don’t like you,” answered Joan promptly. “You’re all wrinkled and funny, and you made my mummy cry.”

“My dear child———”

“So you did. I haven’t been listening to you—it’s rude to listen—but I’ve been looking at you.”

Grace lifted the child in her arms and laughed rather shakily.

“Joan, dear, you mustn’t speak to Miss Whipple like that. She won’t love you.”

“Well, I don’t love her,” replied Joan sullenly. “And she is all wrinkled and funny.”

“Joan!”