ied Tony exultantly.

"I wonder what Charlie chose Denys for," murmured Gertrude.

"Really!" said Denys, flushing and rising, "this conversation is
getting altogether too personal. Come, Maudie, it is your bedtime."

She carried the child off, and Conway said a little pointedly--

"I wonder what anybody could choose Gertrude for."

Gertrude coloured angrily and his mother said gently, "Conway, dear!"

"Well!" said Willie's drawly voice again, "I should like to know what
a girl looks for in a fellow. What should you expect, for instance,
Gertrude?"

One word rose involuntarily to Gertrude's lips, but she choked it
back.

"My dear Willie!" she said with her easy laugh.

And that same word had risen to Conway's lips, but with a tremendous
effort he too choked it back. Gertrude always aggravated him, and it
was a daily fight with him to be civil to her.

He rose abruptly and went into the garden, and in a few minutes the
others drifted after him, and Mr. and Mrs. Brougham were left alone.

"It is nice to see them all together like this," said Mrs. Brougham
fondly, as she watched the moving figures in the garden.

There was a smile in Mr. Brougham's eyes as he quoted--

"And the ancient arrow maker
Turned again unto his labour,
Sat down by his sunny doorway,
Murmuring to himself, and saying,
That it is our daughters leave us."

"We shan't have to part with little Maud--yet," answered Mrs. Brougham
with a low laugh.

There did not rise before her mental vision a picture of a vengeful
woman cowering over a handful of red embers, her mind set on one
object and one object only--some mode of vengeance.

But even if she could have seen such a picture, how could she have
formed a chain of association which should link that woman with the
maid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-haired child upstairs, the
patter of whose little feet sounded over her head?

How the patter of those childish footsteps came back to her heart's
memory on Monday night!

"No," repeated Mr. Brougham thoughtfully, "not yet!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MEETING AND PARTING.

Monday morning brought a letter for Gertrude in a distinctly
masculine, but quite unfamiliar handwriting.

Its very unfamiliarity made her let it lie unopened beside her plate
while she began her breakfast. If anyone showed curiosity about her
correspondent she could truthfully say she did not know who the letter
was from, and she liked