ge in his behaviour, certainly. It was a pity that
Miss Purves came. But it's better not to discuss it."

"I don't agree," said Maggie. "If you think that I'm ashamed of Uncle
Mathew you're quite wrong. He's very unhappy and lonely--" She felt her
voice tremble. "He hasn't got any one to look after him--"

Grace's hand was trembling as she nervously crumbled her bread. Still
without looking at Maggie she said:

"By the way, you did the church flowers this morning didn't you, eh?"

Maggie turned white and, as always on these occasions, her heart
thumped, leaping, as it seemed, into the very palms of her hands.

"But it was to-morrow--" she began.

"You remember that I told you three days ago that it was to be this
morning instead of the usual Thursday because of the Morgans' wedding."

"Oh, Grace, I'm so sorry! I had remembered, I had indeed, and then Lucy
suddenly having that chill--."

Paul struck in. "Really, Maggie, that's too bad. No flowers to-morrow?
Those others were quite dead yesterday. I noticed at evensong ...
Really, really. And the Morgans' wedding!"

Maggie sat there, trembling.

"I'm very sorry," she said, almost whispering. Why did fate play
against her? Why, when she might have fought the Uncle Mathew battle
victoriously, had Grace suddenly been given this weapon with which to
strike?

"I'll go and do them now," she said. "I can take those flowers out of
the drawing-room."

"It's done," Grace slowly savouring her triumph. "I did them myself
this afternoon."

"Then you should have told me that!" Maggie burst out. "It's not fair
making me miserable just for your own fun. You don't know how you hurt,
Grace. You're cruel, you're cruel!"

She had a horrible fear lest she should burst into tears. To save that
terrible disaster she jumped up and ran out of the room, hearing behind
her Paul's admonitory "Maggie, Maggie!"

It is to be expected that Mrs. Maxse and Miss Purves made the most of
their story. The Rector's wife and a drunken uncle! No, it was too good
to be true ... but it was true, nevertheless. Christmas passed and the
horrible damp January days arrived. Skeaton was a dripping covering of
emptiness--hollow, shallow, deserted. Every tree, Maggie thought,
dripped twice as much as any other tree in Europe. It remained for
Caroline Purdie to complete the situation. One morning at breakfast the
story burst upon Maggie's ears. Grace was too deeply moved and excited
to remember her hosti