ery deeply. But
we always see too late the consequences of our proud self-will." She
turned then.

"Come here, dear," she said.

Maggie came to her. Her aunt looked at her and Maggie was deeply
conscious of her shabby dress, her rough hands, her ugly boots. Then,
as always when she was self-critical, her eyes grew haughty and her
mouth defiant.

Her aunt kissed her, her cool, firm fingers against the girl's warm
neck.

"You will come to us now, dear. You should have come long ago."

Maggie wanted to speak, but she could not.

"We will try to make you happy, but ours is not an exciting life."

Maggie's eyes lit up. "It has not," she said, "been very exciting here
always." Then she went on, colour in her cheeks, "I think father did
all he could. I feel now that there were a lot of things that I should
have done, only I didn't see them at the time. He never asked me to
help him, but I wish now that I had offered--or--suggested."

Her lips quivered, again she was near tears, and again, as it had been
on her walk with Uncle Mathew, her regret was not for her father but
for the waste that her life with him had been. But there was something
in her aunt that prevented complete confidence. She seemed in something
to be outside small daily troubles. Before they could speak any more
there was a knock on the door and Uncle Mathew came in. He stood there
looking both ashamed of himself and obstinate.

He most certainly did not appear at his best, a large piece of plaster
on his right cheek showing where he had cut himself with his razor, and
a shabby and tight black suit (it was his London suit, and had lain
crumpled disastrously in his hand-bag) accentuating the undue roundness
of his limbs; his eyes blinked and his mouth trembled a little at the
corners. He was obviously afraid of his sister and flung his niece a
watery wink as though to implore her silence as to his various
misdemeanours.

Brother and sister shook hands, and Maggie, as she watched them, was
surprised to feel within herself a certain sympathy with her uncle.
Aunt Anne's greeting was gentle and kind but infinitely distant, and
had something of the tenderness with which the Pope washes the feet of
the beggars in Rome.

"I'm so glad that you were here," she said in her soft voice. "It must
have been such a comfort to Maggie."

"He has been, indeed, Aunt Anne," Maggie broke in eagerly.

Her uncle looked at her with great surprise; after his behaviour