you live.
But you must not"--he seemed to search for his words--"you must undertake
not to come here, upsetting and indulging the children."

"I'll undertake it. Good vintage, mind."

"The same that you have here."

The countess-dowager beamed. In the midst of her happiness--and it was
what she had not felt for many a long day, for really the poor old
creature had been put about sadly--she bethought herself of propriety.
Melting into tears, she presently bewailed her exhaustion, and said she
should like some tea: perhaps good Mr. Carr would bring her a teaspoonful
of brandy to put into it.

They brought her hot tea, and Mr. Carr put the brandy into it, and
Anne took it to her on the sofa, and administered it, her own tears
overflowing. She was thinking what an awful blow this would have been
to her own mother.

"Little Maude shall be very dear to me always, Val," she whispered. "This
knowledge will make me doubly tender with her."

He laid his hand fondly upon her, giving her one of his sweet sad smiles
in answer. She could at length understand what feelings, in regard to the
children, had actuated him. But from henceforth he would be just to all
alike; and Maude would receive her share of correction for her own good.

"I always said you did not give me back the letter," observed Mr. Carr,
when they were alone together later, and Val sat tearing up the letter
into innumerable bits.

"And I said I did, simply because I could not find it. You were right,
Carr, as you always are."

"Not always. But I am sorry it came to light in this way."

"Sorry! it is the greatest boon that could have fallen on me. The secret
is, so to say, off my mind now, and I can breathe as I have not breathed
for years. If ever a heartfelt thanksgiving went up to Heaven one from me
will ascend to-night. And the dowager does not feel the past a bit. She
cared no more for Maude than for any one else. She can't care for any
one. Don't think me harsh, Carr, in saying so."

"I am sure she does not feel it," emphatically assented Mr. Carr. "Had
she felt it she would have been less noisy. Thank heaven for your sake,
Hartledon, that the miserable past is over."

"And over more happily than I deserved."

A silence ensued, and Lord Hartledon flung the bits of paper carefully
into the fire. Presently he looked up, a strange earnestness in his face.

"It is the custom of some of our cottagers here to hang up embossed cards
at the foot of their