turned from southern seas, Robin had
insisted upon going straight to him, and it was not until her aunt had
laid aside the last shred of her old prejudice and invited Robin's
father to the Manor for a long visit that Robin had consented to look
upon the Manor as her "home," though, even then, she steadfastly
asserted "part" of her time must be spent with Jimmie.

While at the Manor James Forsyth had painted his "Wood Sprite," which
won for him quick and wide recognition, and ever afterward Robin and
Madame Forsyth referred to it as "our picture."

No, Mother Moira was never lonesome.

A gay voice roused her now from her happy reverie, footsteps rustled the
grass, cool hands, with a touch as light as the blowing petals, closed
over her eyes.

"Dreaming again, little Mom? You're incurable!" And Beryl, with a laugh,
dropped upon the ground close to the hammock, one hand closing over her
mother's.

"It's a bit of a cat-nap I'm stealing," fibbed Mother Moira, blushing
like a girl. Her eyes lingered adoringly on the glowing, flushed face
close to hers. "Where have you been, Beryl?"

"Susy coaxed me off to her fairy spring. It's really a lovely little
nook she's found and she's made a doll's house in the hollow of an old
tree. She's a funny little thing--almost elfin, isn't she? Are you sure
she isn't too much trouble for you and Dad, Mother?"

"Trouble? Bless the little heart of the colleen, it's something
happening every minute for it's an imp of mischief she is, but, Beryl, I
like it. It keeps my own heart young."

"As though your heart would ever grow old! You're like Robin. Oh,
mother, you can't _know_ how lonesome I've been over there in Milan for
the sight of you and this little place. I think my soul, the one poor
dear Jacques Henri tried to find in me and didn't--wakened one night
when I actually cried myself to sleep just longing to feel your arms
around me! Oh, when one has a mother and a home like mine to want to
come to, it ought to be _easy_ to keep beautiful inside, the way the
dear man said!" And Beryl, staring thoughtfully out over the valley,
did not see the glow that transformed her mother's face.

A shrill whistle from the Mills echoed and reechoed through the valley.
Beryl turned her head suddenly and laid her cheek against the palm of
her mother's hand.

"Mother, I saw a lot of Tom Granger when I was in Paris."

Mother Moira started ever so slightly, with the barest twitching of the
hand Ber