Never did a girl prepare for a gay visit with a sadder heart. I had not an idea what I was going to. Mr Gray was rich, and I felt certain that his villa was what my father would term “pretentious.” By this would be meant that he had large rooms instead of small, good furniture instead of shabby, good meals instead of bad, and in the place of loneliness and gloom, brightness and company.

This I was sure of, for Mr Gray’s eyes sparkled as if he lived well and cheerily, and the pleasant sunshine of hospitality shone all over his expressive features.

I was going to a gay house then – a “company” house.

I ran down-stairs early the next morning and told my mother of my invitation, and of my acceptance of it.

She seemed a little surprised, then, after a pause, she said she was pleased.

“Go, and have a good time, Rosamund,” she said; “it is quite right that girls should enjoy themselves; but oh! my love,” an anxious shadow coming across her face, “what have you got to wear?”

“Plenty of things, mother,” I retorted, “lashin’s and lavin’s, as they say in Ireland.”

“But you have no evening dress, Rose. At Mr Gray’s the girls are sure to dress for the evening.”

“Oh, I can manage,” I said.

“But you have not got an evening dress, my darling; all the girls will have evening dresses.”

“One girl must do without,” I retorted in a stout voice which concealed many qualms of the heart.

“One girl must not do without,” replied my mother. “Come with me, Rosamund. Rose, did I ever show you my wedding-dress?”

My mother laughed gaily; her eyes were bright.

“I did not know your wedding-dress was in existence, mother,” I said.

“Yes, it is, and well preserved,” she replied. “Come up-stairs with me, and you shall see it.”

I followed my mother into her bedroom. She unlocked a great square wooden trunk, which stood in one of the windows, and laying aside many folds of tissue paper, took from the depths of the trunk a brocaded silk dress of heavy make and rich texture. She laid the dress on the bed, and looked at me with pink spots on each of her cheeks.

“There!” she said; “there! Geoffrey gave me the dress, and he saw me in it. You may suppose that Geoffrey knew how to choose good things. You could not buy silk like that now. Geoffrey pinned a rosebud just here. Do you notice the tiny, yellow stain? And then he kissed me on my forehead. We were good friends that day, although Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, had a strange look in his eyes. I remembered the look afterwards; but we were good friends, very great and affectionate friends. I never saw him again – never. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your mother’s wedding-dress?”

I was examining it all over. It was quaint in make, and the silk had the faint yellow tinge which years of lying by always produces. The sleeves were high and puffed. There was a ruffle of very soft and exquisite lace round the V-shaped body. The waist was long, with a pointed stomacher, and the skirt below was full and wide.

Never was there a dress less like the mode in vogue at the time of which I write.

“The dress is out of date, perhaps, but it is very good in itself,” said my mother. “It will fit you, Rosamund, for your figure is small and dainty, like mine used to be. Will you wear your mother’s wedding-dress, even if it is a little out of the fashion?”

“Yes, I will wear it,” I said. “Give it to me, and I will take it away with me.”

“But you must have other things to match,” said my mother. “Wait a moment; you must have other things to suit the dress.”

She rushed again to her trunk; she looked like a girl in her excitement.

“These are my wedding – shoes,” she said, “and these white silk stockings go with the shoes. This petticoat, with the deep embroidery, will have to be worn under the full skirt of the dress. Oh, Rose, how glad I am now that I did not cut this petticoat up! Rose, I should like to see you dressed for your first dinner-party!”

I kissed my mother, gathered up the poor old-world mementoes of lost youth and love, and ran away to my own room. I took with me on my visit a larger trunk than I had at first intended, for my mother’s wedding silk must not be crushed or injured.

I arrived at the Grays’ house about an hour before dinner.

The villa was less of a villa and more of a mansion than even I had imagined. There was a wide entrance hall, and an open roof overhead, and a square well-staircase, which opened on to galleries which led to the bedrooms. The spring light had nearly faded when I arrived at the house, but the soft and cheerful blaze of coloured lamps gave the brightest and most picturesque effect. There were flowers everywhere, and vistas of pretty things from open doorways, and little peeps of wide conservatories, and a distant faint clatter of glasses and silver in the far-off dining-room.

Mr Gray came out himself to bid me welcome. He was followed by his wife and two daughters, Nettie and Tottie. Nettie and Tottie were round and fat and fair and insignificant-looking. Mrs Gray was also round and fat, but she had a matronly dignity about her, and a comfortable, homely manner which made me take to her at once.

After Mr Gray had shaken me warmly by both my hands, Mrs Gray kissed me, and Nettie and Tottie came up, each to one side of me, and in this manner I was conveyed across the hall, and into a cheerful little boudoir, where three anxious women’s voices pressed hot tea and buttered cakes on my notice.

I drank my tea and ate hot muffins, and felt that the pleasant and luxurious surroundings of my present habitation suited me uncommonly well. After staring at me for half a minute Tottie made an abrupt observation.

“Two or three people are coming to dinner,” she said; “only gentlemen, however, friends of papa’s.”

“Oh, Tottie!” exclaimed Nettie, giving her sister a knowing look. “Friends of papa’s indeed! What next? Are they all only papa’s friend’s?”

Tottie shrugged her shoulders – she looked pleased and conscious – perhaps she expected me to quiz her; but that was not at all the kind of thing I felt capable of doing.

“Some gentlemen are coming to dinner,” resumed Tottie, after an expectant pause, “so perhaps you would like to come up to your room in good time to dress, Miss Lindley?”

I assented at once.

“I shall be very glad to go to my room,” I said.

Tottie preceded me up the shallow stairs. She ushered me into a large bedroom supplied with every modern comfort. It was getting well on into April now, but a bright fire burnt in the grate, and the room was further rendered cheerful with electric light. I had the key of my old-fashioned trunk in my pocket, so it was not yet unpacked; but to my surprise two dinner dresses lay on the bed. One was of soft creamy silk; the other pink, a kind of almost transparent muslin. Both were simple in outline and graceful. Even a brief glance showed me that they were exquisitely finished, and must have cost a large sum. Beside the dresses lay gloves, a fan, small shoes, and delicate openwork stockings. In a box were some beautiful freshly-arranged flowers, a spray for the hair, and another for the front of the dress.

“Oh dear, dear!” exclaimed Tottie. She rushed to the bed and stood silent, the colour mounting high into her cheeks. “That accounts for it,” she said, when she could find her astonished breath. “That accounts for the mysterious box, and for papa’s manner. Does papa take you to the dressmaker, Miss Lindley? How very, very odd that he should superintend your toilet!”

Tottie looked at me with intense curiosity as she spoke. I knew that my cheeks were burning, and that a burst of angry words was crowding to my lips. With a violent effort I restrained them.

“Your father is very civil,” I said, after a pause. “He has evidently fetched this box home. I am much obliged to him for his trouble. Now perhaps, Miss Gray, you will let me get ready for dinner?”

Tottie blushed and stepped away from the bed as if my manner half frightened her.

“Of course,” she said. “I forgot how time was flying. But can I do nothing to help you? Shall I send Dawson, our maid, to you presently to help you to put on one of your pretty dresses?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I always prefer to dress myself.”

With some difficulty I saw Tottie out of the room. Then I locked the door, and with a violent effort kept my hands from tearing those pretty and dainty robes. My heart was full of the most ungovernable anger. I felt that kind-hearted Mr Gray had offered me an insult. I must be sacrificed, and Mr Gray must deck me for the altar. No, no, not quite that; not this lowest depth of all. How thankful I was that I had my mother’s wedding-dress in my trunk.

I dressed myself slowly and with care. I was determined to look well. I was determined to show Mr Gray that Rosamund Lindley was not altogether dependent on him for her chance of looking nice – for looking what she was, on her mother’s side at least, a lady of old family and proud descent.

Remembering Hetty’s advice, I piled my dark hair high on my head; then I put on the dainty silk stockings and shoes with their funny pointed toes; the rich embroidered petticoat came next; over all, the dress. The skirt was very full, but the silk was so soft and rich that it fell gracefully. It showed a peep of my shoes, with their seed pearl ornaments, as I walked. Behind, it was cut away in a pointed train. My mother’s wedding-dress fitted me to perfection. The old ruffles of lovely lace lay softly against my young throat. More ruffles of lace half concealed half showed my arms. I did not need bracelets, and I clasped no ornament of any kind round my neck.

As I was completing my toilet the dinner gong sounded solemn and loud through the house. I had heard the hall-door bell ring two or three times. I knew that the guests had arrived. Still I lingered, putting final touches. At the last moment I pinned a bunch of the softest blush roses, which must have come straight from the Riviera, in the front of my dress. There was no need to add anything further. A glance in the mirror revealed to me that the roses which lay near my heart matched in hue those which tinted my cheeks. For the time being I was beautiful – I was a picture, a walking picture out of long ago. I was glad to be the last to enter the drawing-room. I wanted to startle Mr Gray; to show him that he had presumed. I had no thought to give to any one else at that moment.

Chapter Twenty
Like an Old Picture

Tottie was right when she said that several young men were coming to dinner. They were all more or less at home however; they were accustomed to the house and its ways. I saw when I entered the drawing-room that I was the greatest stranger present. Captain Valentine and his brother were both in the room, but Lady Ursula Redmayne was not one of Mr Gray’s guests. I had thought to startle Mr Gray by the magnificence and quaintness of my toilet; but I must own that I forgot all about him when I glanced up and encountered an earnest, puzzled, respectful look from the wide-open eyes of my cousin Tom. Like a flash my mind reverted to a memory which a moment ago I had forgotten. I was back again in my room reading Cousin Geoffrey’s will. I blushed all over as the hateful remembrance of the conditions of that will filled my brain.

“I cannot see this visit out,” I said, under my breath; “I cannot even spend a second night under this roof. I must go away, I must return home, for never, never can I fulfil the conditions of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”

At this moment Captain Valentine came up and offered me his arm. I was relieved to find that my other cousin was not to take me in to dinner; but matters were scarcely improved for me when I discovered that he sat exactly at the opposite side of the table, and that I could scarcely raise my eyes without encountering his.

“We were greatly disappointed not to meet you in the Chamber of Myths,” said Captain Valentine. “I think Lady Ursula very nearly cried. The fact is, you have roused her profoundest interest, Miss Lindley.”

“I am very much obliged to Lady Ursula,” I answered.

“It was cruel to disappoint us all,” pursued Captain Valentine, “particularly when you gave no adequate reason.”

“That was just it,” I retorted. “Had I come I should not have been entertaining. I had no news to bring – I had nothing to say.”

“But you promised to tell us something of the contents of the letter.”

“I found I could not keep my promise. That letter, as far as we, any of us, are concerned, might as well never have been written.”

“Indeed!” Captain Valentine looked at me long and curiously. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate.

When he spoke next it was on matters of indifference.

Presently there fell a silence over most of the company. Captain Valentine bent towards me, and said in a low voice, almost a whisper:

“No one can tell a better story than my brother Tom; you must listen to him.”

After this whisper there was a kind of hush, and then the one voice, deep and musical, began to speak. It held every one under its spell. I forget the story now, but I shall always remember how the voice of the speaker affected me; how the turmoil and irritation in my breast first subsided, then vanished; how Cousin Geoffrey’s will sank out of sight; how his odious conditions ceased to be. By degrees the enthusiasm of the narrator communicated itself to at least one of his listeners. Tom Valentine was relating a personal experience, and step by step in that journey of peril which he so ably described I went with him. I shared his physical hunger and thirst; I surmounted his difficulties; I lived in the brave spirit which animated his breast. In the end his triumph was mine.

I suppose there was something in my face which showed a certain amount of the feeling within me, for by degrees Tom Valentine ceased to look at any one but me.

There was quite a little applause in the room when his story came to an end, but I think he sought and found his reward in the flashing and enthusiastic verdict which came from my eyes, although my lips said nothing.

After dinner, in the conservatory, my cousin came up and spoke to me.

“You liked my story?” he asked.

“I did not tell you so,” I answered.

“Not with your lips. Sit down here. I have another adventure to relate, and it is not often that a man’s vanity is soothed by such a listener as you are.”

He began to speak at once, and again I forgot Cousin Geoffrey under the spell of my cousin’s voice. He told me two or three more of his adventures that evening. I made very few comments, but the hours flew on wings as I listened. No one interrupted us as we sat together in the conservatory; but although I remembered this fact with burning cheeks, later on, it passed unnoticed by me at the time. Suddenly my cousin stopped speaking.

“You have been a very kind listener,” he said. “I did not know a girl could care so much just for a man’s mere adventures. I’m going back to Africa next week. I shall think of you in my next moments of peril.”

Then I remembered Cousin Geoffrey’s will, and all that Tom Valentine’s going away meant to my family and me.

“Must you go in a week? must you really go in a week?” I said excitedly.

“I have made my arrangements to go in about a week,” he replied, starting back a little and looking at me in astonishment. I knew why he looked like that. The regret in my tone had been unmistakable.

Before I could reply Tottie rushed in.

“You two,” she exclaimed; “you really must come to make up the number we want in our round game.”

Laughter filled her eyes and bubbled round her lips.

“Come, come,” she said; “we can’t do without you, or rather the game can’t.”

Chapter Twenty One
She was Everything

Notwithstanding the ardent vow which I had made before dinner, I did spend that night under the Grays’ roof. I not only spent it there, but I slept profoundly in the luxurious bed in my large and luxurious chamber. In my sleep I dreamt of Tom Valentine. I was with him in Africa; I was going through adventures by his side. After the extraordinary fashion of dreams, there seemed nothing at all remarkable to me in the fact that Tom and I were going through peril together. It seemed to me, in my dream, that we were following a somewhat forlorn hope, and that the same spirit animated us both. I dreamt nothing at all about Cousin Geoffrey’s will.

When the morning broke I thought over the visions of the night and determined to banish them. Tom Valentine was going to Africa in a week. I should probably never see him more. Well, never mind, he was a brave and interesting man. I was glad to think he liked to talk to me; that he, the hero of many an adventure, thought me a good listener – thought it worth his while to thrill my ears and heart with stories both of peril and of sadness. I was glad to know that in a very distant degree I could claim cousinship with Tom Valentine. I determined not to associate him with Cousin Geoffrey’s odious will. This will degraded my cousin. I would think of him apart from it in future. I believed myself quite strong enough to carry out the resolve.

Soon after breakfast that day a pretty little victoria, drawn by a pair of ponies, stopped at the Grays’ house. I was in my room at the moment and had a good view of the carriage sweep. I bent from my window to see who had arrived. Lady Ursula Redmayne sat in the victoria.

A moment or two later I was summoned to see this capricious young woman. I felt certain that she was devoured with curiosity, but I was determined to parry all her questions.

Lady Ursula was alone in the drawing-room when I entered.

“How do you do, Rosamund?” she said. “You did not expect me to find you out here: but of course Rupert and Tom told me all about you. Sit down there, where I can take a good look at you. Rosamund, what a remarkably wicked young woman you are.”

“I don’t understand you, Lady Ursula.”

“Please call me Ursula. We shall be cousins when I am Rupert Valentine’s wife. Do you know, Rosamund, that I have taken an immense fancy to you!”

“What! you have taken a fancy to a wicked young woman!”

“Yes, yes; particularly as she is in reality more naughty than wicked. Rosamund, why did you not come to the Chamber of Myths at the appointed day and hour?”

“I gave Captain Valentine my reason.”

“Pardon me, you did not give him any adequate reason; but it is so easy to deceive a man. Now, I want the truth. Come, Rosamund, confide in me. You know that letter contains news of the deepest interest to you, perhaps to me, perhaps to others. Ah, you blush! I have hit upon the truth.”

I had been sitting when Lady Ursula began to speak, now I stood up.

“As far as any one can predict the future, Lady Ursula,” I said, “the contents of my Cousin Geoffrey Rutherford’s letter will never be known except to the two people who are already in possession of the secret.”

“Who are they?”

“I am one, Mr Gray is the other. Think what you like about the letter, Lady Ursula, you are never, never likely to know more of its contents than you do at this moment.”

Lady Ursula was a person largely blessed with the bump of curiosity, but she was also a lady, and she knew when to stop.

Her face wore a blank, half-amused, half-indignant expression. Then coming up to me she bent forward and kissed my forehead.

“I might have guessed I should have my drive for nothing,” she said. “Now then, to change the subject. Where did you get that fascinating dress you wore last night?”

“The dress I wore last night was my mother’s wedding-gown.”

“Delicious! Who but Rosamund Lindley would have dared to appear in an antiquated robe of that sort! My dear, your daring deserved its success. Rupert declares that he thought his great-grandmother had suddenly come into the room. His great-grandmother young and – and beautiful.”

I scarcely heard Lady Ursula’s last words. I was standing by the window watching a boy who was approaching the house. He was a telegraph boy, and as he walked up the steps I saw him take a yellow envelope out of the little bag fastened to his side. I knew even before the servant brought it in, that that telegram was for me. I also knew that it contained bad tidings. My heart sank low in my breast.

Lady Ursula’s gay, high voice kept rambling on. I ceased to hear a word she was saying. The drawing-room door was opened. The neat parlour-maid walked up the long apartment. She held out a silver salver, with the telegram lying on it.

“For you, miss,” she said. “And the boy is waiting to know if there is any answer.”

The contents of the telegram were brief and emphatic.

“Your mother is very ill; come home at once.”

My father had dictated that telegram. I raised a cold, white face to Lady Ursula’s.

“Good-bye,” I said. “This explains why I must leave you.” I put the telegram into her hand and rushed out of the room. I am not quite sure to this day whether I bid the kind Grays good-bye. I know that somehow or other I found myself in a cab, and in some fashion I caught an early train, and reached home in the bright spring sunshine before the day had half travelled through its course.

Even our ugly garden showed faint traces of the resurrection of all things. A stunted lilac-tree was putting out buds. An almond-tree was adorning itself in a hazy pink robe. There was a faint, tender perfume of violets in the air. I turned the handle of the shabby little front-door and went in.

If spring had given tokens of its presence outside, however, it had printed no fairy footfall inside our ugly and desolate little home. Inside there was close air, confusion, untidiness; but there was also something else – supreme terror, a dark fear. The shadow of this fear sat on my father’s brow. He hurried to meet me the moment I set foot inside the threshold; his face was unkempt, unwashed, his eyes bloodshot; he held out a trembling hand, and grasped my shoulder.

“Thank heaven you have come, Rose,” he said.

“How is mother?” I managed to gasp.

My father’s painful clutch on my shoulder grew harder and firmer.

“Come in here,” he said. He dragged me into the drawing-room, and softly closed the door. “Listen,” he said; “yesterday night your mother’s cough grew worse; this morning she broke a blood-vessel.”

“Then she is dying,” I said in a voice of terror.

“No, she shan’t die – you have got to save her!”

“I? Father – father – how can I?”

“Don’t prevaricate – don’t look me in the face, and tell lies at this moment. Dr Johnson and Dr Keith, from London, are both up-stairs. They will tell you what you have to do. Go to them; obey their directions. There is not a moment to be lost.”

My father’s trembling hand still held my shoulder; he emphasised his words with cruel pinches. I wrenched myself away with a sudden effort.

“You hurt me when you hold me like that,” I said.

“Who cares whether I hurt you or not, child? it’s your mother’s life that hangs in the balance. What matter about you– what are you? Go up-stairs to the doctors. Listen to their directions and obey them.”

I was sobbing feebly. My father’s manner had unnerved me.

“I hate women who cry,” he said, turning away. “You have always made a great profession of caring for your mother. Go up-stairs now, and act on it.”

“How can I?” I repeated. “Father, why do you speak to me as you are doing? My mother wants money, peace, rest.”

“Exactly, Rosamund. Penury and a hard life are killing your mother. Go up-stairs. Don’t talk any more humbug. Get your mother what she wants. Gray, the lawyer, has been here this morning.”

“Oh,” I said, “and he has told you?”

“He has told me that you can be rich if you please. He has told me also the source from which the wealth can come. You think that I will shrink from that source. I shrink from nothing that will save your mother. Gray thinks it highly probable that you will act like a weak idiot.”

“Father, did Mr Gray tell you what I had to do?”

“He did not. I did not ask him. Whatever it is, do it. Go up-stairs now and see the doctors.”

My father opened the drawing-room door and pushed me out. He locked the door behind me. I heard him pacing the little room, and his groans of agony reached me through the thin panels of the locked door. I stumbled up-stairs. On the landing I met George. His hair was ruffled; his eyes red and sunk into his head. He had evidently been crying – crying, hard man that he was, until his eyelids were swelled and blistered.

“So you have come, Rose,” he said; “that is well. You will put everything right, of course?”

“You have seen Mr Gray, too,” I whispered. “Yes, yes; for God’s sake don’t lose a minute in putting things straight.”

“But can I?” I whispered back. “Even money cannot always, always save.”

“You can but try,” retorted George. “Go and speak to the doctors. Our mother’s life depends on your actions I am firmly convinced. Here is Dr Johnson. Will you talk to my sister, doctor?”

The family physician motioned me into a spare bedroom. He introduced me to the London doctor, and they began a semi-technical explanation of my mother’s case.

“Things are bad, but not hopeless,” said Dr Keith. “If certain measures are taken directly, there is no reason why Mrs Lindley may not revive and gain strength, and have many years of life before her. Her lungs are undoubtedly affected, but the worst mischief is in connection with the heart. Listen, Miss Lindley. I have one emphatic direction to give. Your mother must have no more worries.”

“No more worries,” I repeated under my breath. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

“You are looking very ill yourself, my dear child,” said Dr Johnson.

“Never mind me,” I said, turning away impatiently.

“But I must and will mind you,” retorted our fussy little family doctor. “Dr Keith, there is not a more admirable girl in the land than Rosamund Lindley.”

Dr Keith bowed an acknowledgment of my merits. Then he took his watch out of his pocket.

“I really must catch the next train,” he said. “Good-bye, Miss Lindley. Johnson will go into the particulars of our proposed treatment with you; but remember above all things, no worry. As much cheerfulness as you can possibly manage; a generous diet, the best champagne – I have ordered a special brand – and – and – I think we’ll do. In all probability in about a fortnight Mrs Lindley will be well enough to be moved by easy stages to Cannes. Good-bye, Miss Lindley; keep up a brave heart.”

Dr Keith went cheerfully out of the room. Perhaps he imagined that he had given me excellent advice. Perhaps he had, if I could only have acted on it. I rushed away to my room, bathed my face and hands, put on slippers which made no sound, and my prettiest afternoon dress. Then on tip-toe I went across the landing to my mother’s room; on tip-toe my father was coming up the stairs.

“Well, Rosamund, you have seen the doctors?”

“Yes, father.”

“You know what they wish?”

“Yes, father.”

“You will do it?”

“Yes – I will do it.”

“Good girl. Kiss me. God bless you. George, George, – come here!”

George’s red face had been peeping round his bedroom door.

“George, your sister will do what is required. By God’s blessing we may keep your mother with us yet.”

“Thank you, Rosamund,” said George. He bent his big sulky head and kissed me lightly on my forehead. He, too, in his fashion, was blessing me. I felt as if my heart would break.

I turned the handle of my mother’s door and went in. There was no confusion in this room. A bright little fire burned in the grate. One of the windows was open about an inch. The room was sweet with the perfume of violets. Somebody – my father probably – had picked a few from the garden and brought them in. My mother herself was lying high up in bed supported by pillows. There was a faint pink on each of her cheeks, but the rest of her sweet and lovely face was white as death. Her gentle eyes looked too bright, her lips wore too sweet a smile.

The moment I saw her the whole attitude of my mind changed. I ceased to feel that I was about to do any sacrifice. I became eager – excited to set the seal to that which would open wide the fairy doors of peace and health and ease and luxury for my mother. I absolutely lived in her life at that moment. I was nothing – she was everything. I rejoiced; my heart even danced at the thought that it was in my power to bestow a great gift upon her. I went up and kissed her.

“You look well, Rose,” she whispered, reading the joy which filled my eyes.

“Oh, yes, I am very well,” I replied. “I am so glad to be back with you, mother. I am going to stay with you night and day until you are as strong as you ever were.”

While I spoke I held her hand, which I softly stroked. In a few minutes I stole out of the room. George was still lingering about on the landing.

“Well, well?” he whispered.

“Don’t whisper, George, but come down-stairs with me at once; I want to write a letter, and I want you to take it for me.”

I sat down at my mother’s desk in the drawing-room and scribbled a hasty line:

“Dear Mr Gray, —

“I will fulfil the conditions of Cousin Geoffrey’s will. Please give George a hundred pounds to bring back with him.

“Yours very truly, —

“Rosamund Lindley.”

George was looking over my shoulder as I wrote.

“You must get some of that money in small change,” I said, looking up at him. “And then you are to buy all the things I have mentioned in this list. Don’t forget one of them, and come back by the first possible train.”

While I was speaking to George my father came into the room.

“It’s all right,” I said; “and George is going to town to get the things we shall immediately require. Now go, George, and be quick. Father, I want to speak to you.”

“What is it, Rose?”

“Will you please go out and ascertain if the Priory is still to let?”

“The Priory! Are you mad, child?”

“No, I assure you I am quite sane. The Priory is a very pleasant sunny house, beautifully furnished. The Ashtons only left it a week ago. If it is still to let, please take it without a moment’s delay. It is not the least matter about the price. It faces due south, and has a lovely garden. I think we may be able to remove my mother there to-morrow.”