again," Mary said to her
father, in tender reproach.

"It is for your good, Moll. You have outgrown Wistaria Terrace. We could
not long have contented you."

But Mary shook her head. She thought she would have been very well
content at home. She could have got plenty of teaching to do. She
thought of the little house as of a resting place from which she was to
be debarred. But she would not dispute her father's will for her. He
rallied her, saying that if they kept her her head and shoulders would
presently be pushing themselves above the slates.

"It was big enough for you," she said indignantly, "and your mind rises
to greater heights than mine ever will. You cramped yourself into it, if
it were a question of cramping. Why should not I?"

"Sometimes it was not big enough, Moll," he answered. "Sometimes it was
sore cramping, and at other times it was big enough to contain the
heaven and all the stars. Perhaps the ambition I flung away for myself I
keep for you. I would not have you at microscopic work all your days."

So it was settled. For a little while longer Mary stayed on at home.
Then, when the leaves were just opening out in pale green silk, and all
the world was fragrant and full of the joy of birds, she went,
unwillingly, and turning back many times to make her sorrowful
farewells.

"I don't want you to stay till you begin to feel cramped," Walter Gray
had said. "I had rather you went away with your illusions."

She did carry away her illusions. It was a happy and blessed thing for
her that she could make illusions about common things all the days she
was to live. Yet somewhere, in her hidden heart, she knew her father was
right.

CHAPTER XI

THE LION

Mary was established, high up in Chenevix House. She was amazed at the
spaciousness of the rooms, the feeling in them as though the streets
were far away. The square was a wonder of waving and tossing green,
across which Mary looked from her window and saw other stately old
houses like the one she was in. At first she was never tired of admiring
the miracle of spring in London. She realised that no country greenness
is equal to the glory of the new leaf against the dingy house-fronts,
the green freshness about the black stems and boughs and branches.

Lady Agatha was in a perpetual whirl of affairs and gaiety. All her
days, and her nights into the small hours, seemed to be filled. At this
time Mary had a great deal of her time to herself. I