e the relationship between them.
Although her son looked sad and care-worn, he seemed more like an elder
brother than the father of the two young girls.

There was some little restraint between them at first. Lord Earle
seemed at a loss what to talk about; then Lady Helena's gracious tact
came into play. She would not have dinner in the large dining room,
she ordered it to be served in the pretty morning room, where the fire
burned cheerfully and the lamps gave a flow of mellow light. It was a
picture of warm, cozy English comfort, and Lord Earle looked pleased
when he saw it.

Then, when dinner was over, she asked Beatrice to sing, and she, only
pleased to show Lord Earle the extent of her accomplishments, obeyed.
Her superb voice, with its clear, ringing tones, amazed him. Beatrice
sang song after song with a passion and fire that told how deep the
music lay in her soul.

Then Lady Helena bade Lillian bring out her folio of drawings, and
again Lord Earle was pleased and surprised by the skill and talent he
had not looked for. He praised the drawings highly. One especially
attracted his attention--it was the pretty scene Lillian had sketched
on the May day now so long passed--the sun shining upon the distant
white sails, and the broad, beautiful sweep of sea at Knutsford.

"That is an excellent picture," he said; "it ought to be framed. It is
too good to be hidden in a folio. You have just caught the right
coloring, Lillian; one can almost see the sun sparkling on the water.
Where is this sea-view taken from?"

"Do you not know it?" she asked, looking at him with wonder in her
eyes. "It is from Knutsford--mamma's home."

Ronald looked up in sudden, pained surprise.

"Mamma's home!" The words smote him like a blow. He remembered Dora's
offense--her cold letter, her hurried flight, his own firm resolve
never to receive her in his home again--but he had not remembered that
the children must love her--that she was part of their lives. He could
not drive her memory from their minds. There before him lay the pretty
picture of "mamma's home."

"This," said Lillian, "is the Elms. See those grand old trees, papa!
This is the window of Mamma's room, and this was our study."

He looked with wonder. This, then, was Dora's home--the pretty, quaint
homestead standing in the midst of the green meadows. As he gazed, he
half wondered what the Dora who for fifteen years had lived there could
be like. Did the cu