ere, at least, were people who knew what it was to live!

'So we have really got our little country blossom transplanted,' said
her uncle, as he kissed her warmly. 'I have so often begged your father
to let you come to us before, but he always wrote that you could not be
spared.'

A hot flush burnt its way up over her cheeks and brow. And he had let
her think all this time that they had not cared! Her own father! He
might at least have trusted her!

She started, for her uncle was saying:--

'This is your Aunt Rutha, my dear,' and turned to be clasped in tender
arms, and hear a sweet voice whisper the all-sufficient introduction:--

'I loved your mother.'

And then she had been taken upstairs by the lively Belle to refresh
herself after her journey, and prepare for dinner, which had been
delayed until her arrival.

The dinner itself was a revelation. The snowy table with its silver
dishes and graceful centre-piece of hot-house blooms, the crystal
sparkling in the rosy glow cast by silken-shaded, massively carved
lamps, the perfect, noiseless serving, and the bright conversation
which flowed freely, little hindered by the different courses of soup
and fish, and game and ices--conversation about things that were
happening in the world which seemed to be growing larger every minute,
apt allusions by Mr Davis, lively sallies by Belle, and quotations by
Russell from authors who seemed to be household friends, so highly were
they held in reverence.

Afterwards there had been music, Russell at the piano, and Gwendolyn and
Belle with their violins, and she had sat upon the sofa by the gracious,
new-found friend, who stroked her rough hand gently with her white
jewelled fingers, and talked to her softly, in the pauses of the music,
of what her mother was like as a girl. Verily, Aunt Rutha had a
wonderful way of making one feel at home.

She laughed to herself as the thought came to her. She felt more at home
than she had ever done before in her life. She remembered reading
somewhere that the children of men were often brought up under alien
conditions, like ducklings brooded over by a mother hen, but as soon as
a chance was given, they flew to their native element and the former
things were as though they had not been. An inborn instinct of
refinement made this new life immediately congenial. But--could she ever
forget the weary conditions of Sleepy Hollow? She frequently heard in
imagination the clatter of the dishes