o, and posted it there
according to Mary's wish.

XXXVII

One afternoon of pouring rain a two-horse, covered cab from Monte Carlo
splashed in at the gate of Stellamare, turned noisily on the wet gravel,
and stopped in front of Jim Schuyler's marble portico. There was luggage
on the cab; and from the vehicle, with rain pelting on her head,
descended a girl in a brown travelling dress.

The butler, who acted also as valet for Jim, was engaged in packing for
his master, who intended to leave for America next day. A servant (new
to the house) answered the door and regarded the visitor with round eyes
of astonishment. Few callers came to Stellamare, as Schuyler seldom
received those whom he had not specially invited, and never had the
footman seen a woman arrive alone.

"Is Mr. Schuyler at home?" the girl asked briskly, in English. The young
man looked helpless, and she repeated the question in French.

"Not at home, Mademoiselle," the reply came promptly.

"I know he is always officially out," said the visitor. "But if he is in
the house he will see me. I am his cousin, and I've just arrived from
Scotland. Tell him, please, that Miss Maxwell has come."

"And the baggage, Mademoiselle?" the stricken man inquired. "Am I to
have it taken down? Monsieur leaves for America to-morrow."

"The baggage can stay where it is for the present," said Peter. "You may
show me into the library."

"But Monsieur is there."

"All the better. Then I will give him a surprise. You needn't be afraid.
He won't be angry with you."

The footman, having already observed that the amazing visitor was not
only pretty but _chic_, decided to obey.

"Mees Maxwell," he announced at the door of the library, and leaving the
lady to explain herself, discreetly vanished.

Schuyler was in the act of selecting from his bookshelves a few
favourite volumes to take with him from this home of peace, back to the
hurly-burly. Unable to believe his ears, he turned quickly, and then for
half a second could not believe his eyes. Disarmed, his face told Peter
a secret she had long wished to know with certainty. Therefore, though
he spoke almost brusquely, and frowned at her instead of smiling, she
was so happy that she could have sung for joy. "If I don't fix it all up
to-day, my name isn't Molly Maxwell," she informed her inner self, in
the quaint, practical way that Mary had loved.

"Peter--it can't be you!" Schuyler exclaimed.

"It's all that's