ssed out swiftly with the words before her step-mother's
gathering wrath could descend upon her. One of Mrs. Ingleton's
main grievances was that it was so difficult to corner Sylvia when
she wanted to give free vent to her violence.

She watched the girl's slim figure pass out into the pale November
sunshine, and her frown turned to a very bitter smile.

"Ah, my girl, you wait a bit!" she murmured. "You've met your
match, or I'm much mistaken."

The squire was smoking his morning pipe in a sheltered corner. He
looked round with his usual half-surly expression as his daughter
joined him.

She came to him very quietly and put her hand on his arm.

"Well?" he said gruffly.

She stood for a moment or two in silence, then:

"Dad," she said very quietly, "I am going to cable to Guy. I
haven't heard from him lately. I must know the reason why
before--before----" A quiver of agitation sounded in her voice and
she stopped.

"If you've made up your mind to marry Preston, I don't see why you
want to do that," said the squire curtly.

"I am going to do it," she answered steadily. "I only wish I had
done it sooner."

Ingleton burrowed into his paper. "All right," he growled.

Sylvia stood for a few seconds longer, but he did not look up at
her, and at length, with a sharp sigh, she turned and left him.

She did not return to her step-mother, however. She went to her
room to write her message.

A little later she passed down the garden on her way to the
village. A great restlessness was upon her, and she thought the
walk to the post-office would do her good.

She came upon Jeffcott in one of the shrubberies, and he stopped
her with the freedom of an old servant.

"Beggin' your pardon, missie, but you'll let me wish you joy?" he
said. "I heard the good news this morning."

She stood still. His friendly look went straight to her heart,
stirring in her an urgent need for sympathy.

"Oh, Jeffcott," she said, "I'd never have given in if Mr. Ranger
hadn't stopped writing."

"Lor!" said Jeffcott. "Did he now?" He frowned for an instant.
"But---didn't you have a letter from him last week?" he questioned.
"Friday morning it were. I see Evans, the postman, and he said as
there were a South African letter for you. Weren't that from Mr.
Ranger, missie?"

"What?" said Sylvia sharply.

"Last Friday it were," the old man repeated firmly. "Why, I see
the letter in his hand top of the pile when he stopped i