ng brought up his children with expensive
tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he
had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she
told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret
sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the
stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance.
She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered.
"Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your
packing-cases."

"Why has she done that? How unnecessary!"

"Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to."

"I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did
undertake to light an occasional fire."

"It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds
covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he
feels certain you don't know."

"Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. "Dolly, are you
serious? Has she been touching our books?"

"Hasn't she, though! What used to be the hall's full of them. Charles
thought for certain you knew of it."

"I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss
Avery? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my
brother's, and are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the
cases."

"I say she's dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know.
Oh, I say, perhaps, she thinks your books are wedding-presents to
herself. Old maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all
like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie."

"I hadn't heard of that," said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its
compensations.

"Didn't you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned
it, and then--oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery
wrote."

"But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn't like her to do such a
heartless thing."

"But the present was so expensive."

"Why does that make any difference, Dolly?"

"Still, when it costs over five pounds--I didn't see it, but it was
a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can't very well
accept that kind of thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?"

"You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married."

"Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff--not worth a halfpenny. Evie's was
quite different. You'd have to ask any one to the wedding who gave you
a pendant li