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“What does all this mean, Cecil?” asked Mr Anstruther, wearily, and his daughter put the telegram into his hand.

“Well,” he said, when he had read it, “you have asked Miss Arbuthnot to find you a situation, I suppose? After all, perhaps it is the best thing you can do.”

“And you must let me help with the boys then, papa,” said Cecil, eagerly. “I think I am pretty sure to get a good salary, you know, and I can take one of them, at any rate, off your hands.”

“Very well, my dear. It is impossible not to feel grateful for such a proposal. Patrick, leave off teasing that cat, and go to school with your brothers. If you can get your things ready for the 11.55 train, Cecil, I will walk down to the station with you.”

Cecil dashed up-stairs, and spent the next hour in wild efforts to get her box packed, which was a work of difficulty, with Eily, Norah, and Geraldine standing around, advising, touching, criticising, meddling in a way that nearly drove her mad. Happily Mrs Anstruther was to return before lunch, and she therefore felt less compunction than she would otherwise have done in leaving her flock to their own devices. By dint of superhuman exertion she managed to be ready by the appointed time, and kissed the children all round, admonished them not to quarrel, rushed into the nursery to remind the nurse to put on their clean pinafores before their mother’s return, and gave hasty parting directions about lunch to the cook. Then there was a hurried walk down to the station, in which she endeavoured vainly to keep up with her father’s long strides, and a brief farewell on the platform. Cecil shook hands with Mr Anstruther (he had an invincible objection to being kissed in public, principally owing to the fact that his wife and younger children were especially given to the practice), and he put her into a ladies’ carriage just as the train was about to start.