A Great Change


"There's no doubt about it, we really must economize somehow!" sighed
Mrs. Woodward helplessly, with her housekeeping book in one hand, and
her bank pass-book in the other, and an array of bills spread out on the
table in front of her. "Children, do you hear what I say? The war will
make a great difference to our income, and we can't--simply _can't_--go
on living in exactly the old way. The sooner we all realize it the
better. I wish I knew where to begin."

"Might knock off going to church, and save the money we give in
collections!" suggested Percy flippantly. "It must tot up to quite a
decent sum in the course of a year, not to mention pew rent!"

His mother cast a reproachful glance at him.

"Now, Percy, _do_ be serious for once! You and Winona are quite old
enough to understand business matters. I must discuss them with
somebody. As I said before, we shall really have to economize somehow,
and the question is where to begin."

"I saw some hints in a magazine the other day," volunteered Winona,
hunting among a pile of papers, and fishing up a copy of _The
Housewife's Journal_. "Here you are! There's a whole article on War
Economies. It says you can halve your expenses if you only try. It gives
ten different recipes. Number One, Dispense with Servants. Oh, goody! I
don't know how the house would get along without Maggie and Mary! Isn't
that rather stiff?"

"It's impossible to be thought of for a moment! I should never dream of
dismissing maids who have lived with me for years. I've read that
article, and it may be practicable for other people, but certainly not
for us. Oh, dear! Some of my friends recommend me to remove to the town,
and others say 'Stay where you are, and keep poultry!'"

"We can't leave Highfield! We were all born here!" objected Winona
decisively.

"And we tried keeping hens some time ago," said Percy. "They laid on an
average three-quarters of an egg a year each, as far as I remember."

"I'm afraid we didn't know how to manage them," replied Mrs. Woodward
fretfully. "Percy, leave those papers alone! I didn't tell you to turn
them over. You're mixing them all up, tiresome boy! Don't touch them
again! It's no use trying to discuss business with you children! I shall
write and consult Aunt Harriet. Go away, both of you, now! I want to
have a quiet half-hour."

Aunt Harriet stood to the Woodward family somewhat in the light of a
Delphic oracle. To apply to her was always the very last resource.
Matters must have reached a crisis, Winona thought, if they were
obliged to appeal to Aunt Harriet's judgment. She followed Percy into
the garden with a sober look on her face.

"You don't think mother would really leave Highfield?" she asked her
brother anxiously.

"Bunkum!" replied that light-hearted youth. "We always have more or less
of a fuss when my school bills come in. It'll soon fizzle out again!
Don't you fret yourself. Things will jog on as they always have jogged
on. There'll be nothing done, you'll see. Come on and bowl for me,
that's a chubby one!"

"But this time mother really seemed to be in earnest," said Winona
meditatively, as she helped to put up the stumps.

Mrs. Woodward had been left a widow three years before this story opens.
She was a fair, fragile little woman, still pretty, and pathetically
helpless. She had been accustomed to lean upon her husband, and now, for
lack of firmer support, she leaned upon Winona. Winona was young to act
as prop, and though it flattered her sense of importance, it had put a
row of wrinkles on her girlish forehead. At fifteen she seemed much
older than Percy at sixteen. No one ever dreamt of taking Percy
seriously; he was one of those jolly, easy-going, happy-go-lucky,
unreliable people who saunter through life with no other aim than to
amuse themselves at all costs. To depend upon him was like trusting to a
boat without a bottom. Though nominally the eldest, he had little more
sense of responsibility than Ernie, the youngest. It was Winona who
shouldered the family burdens.

The Woodwards had always lived at Highfield, and in their opinion it was
the most desirable residence in the whole of Rytonshire. The house was
old enough to be picturesque, but modern enough for comfort. Its quaint
gables, mullioned windows and Cromwellian porch were the joy of
photographers, while the old-fashioned hall, when the big log fire was
lighted, would be hard to beat for coziness. The schoolroom, on the
ground floor, had a separate side entrance on to the lawn, leading
through a small ante-room where boots and coats and cricket bats and
tennis rackets could be kept; the drawing-room had a luxurious ingle
nook with cushioned seats, and all the bedrooms but two had a southern
aspect. As for the big rambling garden, it was full of delightful
old-world flowers that came up year after year: daffodils and violets
and snow-flakes, and clumps of pinks, and orange lilies and Canterbury
bells, and tall Michaelmas daisies, and ribbon grass and royal Osmunda
fern, the sort of flowers that people used to pick in days gone by, put
a paper frill round, and call a nosegay or a posy. There was a lawn for
tennis and cricket, a pond planted with irises and bulrushes, and a wild
corner where crocuses and coltsfoot and golden aconite came up as they
liked in the spring time.

Winona loved this garden with somewhat the same attachment that a French
peasant bears for the soil upon which he has been reared. She rejoiced
in every yard of it. To go away and resign it to others would be
tragedy unspeakable. The fear that Aunt Harriet might recommend the
family to leave Highfield was sufficient to darken her horizon
indefinitely. That her mother had written to consult the oracle she was
well aware, for she had been sent to post the letter. She had an
instinctive apprehension that the answer would prove a turning-point in
her career.

For a day or two everything went on as usual. Mrs. Woodward did not
again allude to her difficulties, Percy had conveniently forgotten them,
and the younger children were not aware of their existence. Winona lived
with a black spot dancing before her mental eyes. It was continually
rising up and blotting out the sunshine. On the fourth morning appeared
a letter addressed in an old-fashioned slanting handwriting, and bearing
the Seaton post mark. Mrs. Woodward read it in silence, and left her
toast unfinished. Aunt Harriet's communications generally upset her for
the day.

"Come here, Winona," she said agitatedly, after breakfast. "Oh, dear, I
wish I knew what to do! It's so very unexpected, but of course it would
be a splendid thing for you. If only I could consult somebody! I suppose
girls nowadays will have to learn to support themselves, and the war
will alter everything, but I'd always meant you to stop at home and look
after the little ones for me, and it's very--"

"What does Aunt Harriet say, mother?" interrupted Winona, with a catch
in her throat.

"She says a great deal, and I dare say she's right. Oh, this terrible
war! Things were so different when I was a girl! You might as well read
the letter for yourself, as it concerns you. I always think she's hard
on Percy, poor lad! I was afraid the children were too noisy the last
time she was here, but they wouldn't keep quiet. I'm sure I try to do my
best all round, and you know, Winona, how I said Aunt Harriet--"

But Winona was already devouring the letter.


                                        "10 Abbey Close,

                                                  "Seaton,

                                                    "August 26th.




