ing restlessly on
her pillows, would interpose an impatient, "Oh, mother, don't be silly!"
but Mary had relapsed into her old silence, and automatically continued
the work in hand, vouchsafing no reply. But in her bedroom the big new
box was packed ready for flight, and every evening before she went to
bed, she took her cheque-book from her desk, and fingered it with
reverent touches.

Everything was ready. Quietly and steadily she had made her
preparations, and on the morning when Teresa made her first reappearance
at breakfast, the last barrier was withdrawn.

"_So_ nice to be all together again!" Mrs Mallison cried gushingly.
"Plenty of fresh air, and you will soon look quite yourself, dear child.
The Captain would be sad if you lost your pretty colour. Mary shall
take you a nice walk this morning. Elm Road, and round by the larches.
That will be sunny and sheltered. You can start at eleven."

"I shall not be able to take Teresa a walk. I am going to London this
morning by the 10:50," said Mary quietly.

There was a moment's silence. Teresa bit her lip to repress a laugh,
Mrs Mallison, crimson-cheeked, checked herself on the verge of angry
words, and cast a glance at her husband.

"My dear," said the Major courteously, "I wish you a very pleasant time.
I will order a fly to take your luggage."

No one accompanied Mary to the station. Mrs Mallison detained Teresa
on the score of draughts. Everybody knew that stations were the most
draughty places in the world; since there was now no one to help, she
herself must take Teresa a walk. They could go round by the fish shop,
and order a sole. Since she was to be left alone to cope with the
household, she must get into the habit of fitting things in. The Major
retired to his study, obviously ill at ease, and reappeared only at the
last moment, to peck at his daughter's cheek with chilly lips, and
reiterate, "My dear, I wish you a pleasant time," but Mary caught a
glimpse of his bald head at the window as the fly crawled down the lane,
and it did not raise her spirits to remember that she had wounded her
father's heart. That morning, for the first time in her life, Mary
travelled in a first-class carriage, an experience far from exciting,
since it meant remaining in solitary splendour for the whole of the
journey. She found little improvement in comfort, but so far from
regretting the expenditure of extra shillings, dwelt on it as the only
satisfying par