of that summer evening, she saw Paul kiss
Maggie, as the moths blundered about her lamp, her stolid unimaginative
heart was terrified. This girl, who was she? What had she been before
they found her? What was this strange passion in Paul isolating him
from her, his sister? This girl was dangerous to them all-a heathen.
They had made a terrible mistake. Paul had been from the first
bewitched by some strange spell, and she, his sister, had aided the
witch.

And yet, to her credit be it remembered, for two years, she fought her
fears, superstitions, jealousies, angers. That can have been no easy
thing for a woman who had always had her own way. But Maggie helped
her. There were many days during that first year at any rate when Grace
thought that the girl was, after all, only the simple harmless child
that she had first found her.

It was so transparently clear that Maggie bore no malice against any
one in the world, that when she angered Grace she did so always by
accident, never by plan-it was only unfortunate that the accidents
should occur so often.

Maggie's days were from the very first of the utmost regularity.
Breakfast at 8.30, then an interview with the cook (Grace generally in
attendance here), then shopping (with Grace), luncheon at 1.30,
afternoon, paying calls or receiving them, dinner 7.45, and after
dinner, reading a book while Paul and Grace played bezique, or, if Paul
was busy upon a sermon or a letter (he wrote letters very slowly),
patience with Grace. This regular day was varied with meetings, choir
practices, dinner-parties, and an occasional Penny Reading.

In this framework of the year it would have appeared that there was
very little that could breed disturbance. There were, however, little
irritations. Maggie would have given a great deal could she have been
allowed to interview the cook in the morning alone.

It would seem impossible to an older person that Grace's presence could
so embarrass Maggie; it embarrassed her to the terrible extent of
driving every idea out of her head.

When Maggie had stammered and hesitated and at last allowed, the cook
to make a suggestion, Grace would say. "You mustn't leave it all to
cook, dear. Now what about a nice shepherd's pie?"

The cook, who hated Grace, would toss her head.

"Impossible to-day, Mum ... Quite impossible."

"Oh, do you think so?" Maggie would say.

This was the cook's opportunity.

"Well, for you, Mum, I'll see if it can't be ma