e?"

Mrs. Home took the note, and flung it into the fire.

"There!" she said, an angry spot on each cheek. "She and hers have
injured me and mine. I don't want gifts from her. I want my rights!"

To this burst of excited feeling Mr. Home answered nothing. After a
moment or two of silence he rang the bell, and when Anne appeared asked
her to take away the tea-things. After this followed an hour of perfect
quiet. Mrs. Home took out her great basket of mending. Mr. Home sat
still, and apparently idle, by the fire. After a time he left the room
to go for a moment to his own. Passing the nursery, he heard a little
movement, and, entering softly, saw Harold sitting up in his little cot.

"Father, is that you?" he called through the semi-light.

"Yes, my boy. Is anything the matter? Why are you not asleep?"

"I couldn't, father dear; I'm so longing for to-morrow. I want to blow
my new trumpet again, and to see the rest of the brown-paper parcels.
Father, do come over to me for a moment."

Mr. Home came, and put his arm round the little neck.

"Did mother tell you that _our_ pretty lady came to-day, and brought
such a splendid lot of things?"

"Whose pretty lady, my boy?"

"_Ours_, father--the lady you, and I, and Daisy, and baby met in the
park yesterday. You said it was rude to kiss her, and _she_ did not
mind. She gave me dozens and dozens of kisses to-day."

"She was very kind to you," said Mr. Home. Then, bidding the child lie
down and sleep, he left him and went on to his own room. He was going to
his room with a purpose. That purpose was quickened into intensity by
little Harold's words.

That frank, fearless, sweet-looking girl was Miss Harman! That letter
was, therefore, not to be wondered at. It was the kind of letter he
would have expected such a woman to write. What was the matter with his
Lottie?

In his perplexity he knelt down; he remained upon his knees for about
ten minutes, then he returned to the little parlor. The answer to his
earnest prayer was given to him almost directly. His wife was no longer
proud and cold. She looked up the moment he entered, and said,--

"You are angry with me, Angus."

"No, my darling," he answered, "not angry, but very sorry for you."

"You must not be sorry for me. You have anxieties enough. I must not add
to them. Not all the Miss Harmans that ever breathe shall bring a cloud
between you and me. Angus, may I put out the gas and then sit close to
you? You shall