" said
Jack, with a laugh.

But when Rutland Road was reached someone stood waiting to open the door
of the cab and welcome the wanderer in the sweetest tones of a sweet
contralto voice. She said only a few words, but with true Irish tact
chose just the ones which were most comforting under the circumstances.

"Welcome back, dear. I've missed you badly. So have we all." Then she
looked at Jack, and smiled as if his presence were the most natural
thing in the world. "You have brought her home safely. That's right,"
she said. It was one of Bridgie's most lovable qualities that she never
asked awkward questions, nor showed undue curiosity about the affairs of
others.

Brother and sister said good-bye at the door, leaving aunt and niece
alone, and, as the door closed behind them, Sylvia felt a spasm of
loneliness and regret. It was hard to part from Jack with that formal
shake of the hand, to feel that days might elapse before they met again,
and, as she looked round the ugly little dining-room, she felt like a
prisoned bird which longs to break loose the bars and fly to its mate.

It seemed impossible to settle down to the old monotonous life, and
yet--and yet--how much, much worse it might have been! How thankful she
ought to be! If one hope had been taken away, another had been granted
in its stead. The path ahead was still bright with promise, and a
sudden pity seized her for the woman whose youth was gone, and who had
lost the last tie to the past. She returned her aunt's kisses with
unusual affection, and roused herself to notice and show appreciation of
the efforts which had been made on her behalf.

The table was laid with the best china, the red satin tea-cosy had been
brought from its hiding-place upstairs and divested of its muslin bag
and holland wrappings; the centre mat presented by Cousin Mary Ferguson
two Christmases ago was displayed for the first time; the serviettes
were folded into rakish imitations of cocked hats.

It was half touching, half gruesome, to find the occasion turned into a
_fete_, but Sylvia was determined to be amiable, and said gratefully--

"How kind of you to have supper ready for me, Aunt Margaret! I could
not eat anything on the boat, but now I believe I am hungry. It all
looks very good. The chickens one gets in France are not the least like
the ones at home."

"They don't know how to feed them, my dear. I am glad you have an
appetite. I always find that whe