Miriam beat her hands together softly. "And yet," she said, "I've
sometimes been to church for a diversion. Have you?"

"Never," he answered firmly.

"I counted the bald heads," she said mournfully, "but they didn't last
out." She looked up and saw that Uncle Alfred was laughing silently: she
glanced over her shoulder and saw Mildred Caniper's lips compressed, and
she had a double triumph. This was the moment when it would be wise for
her to go to bed. Like a dark flower, lifting itself to the sun, she
rose from her knees in a single, steady movement.

"Good-night," she said with a little air. "And we'll have our walk
tomorrow?"

He was at the door, holding it open. "Yes, but--in the afternoon, if we
may. I am not an early riser, and I don't feel very lively in the
mornings."

"Ah," she thought as she went upstairs, "he wouldn't have said that to
my mother. He's getting old: but never mind, I'm like a lady in a
romance! I believe he loved my mother and I'll make him love me."

CHAPTER VII

She was not allowed time for that achievement. On the morning of the day
which was to have been productive of so much happiness, the postman
brought a letter with a foreign stamp, and Miriam took it to the kitchen
where her stepmother and Helen were discussing meals.

"A letter," Miriam said flippantly, "from Italy."

"Thank you, Miriam. Put it on the table." The faint colour our deepened
on her cheeks. "I'm afraid one of you will have to go into the town
again. I forgot to ask Rupert to order the meat. Miriam--"

"No, I can't go. I'm engaged to Uncle Alfred."

"I think we might easily persuade him to excuse you. He really dislikes
walking, though he would not say so."

"Or," Helen said with tact, "we could get chickens from Lily Brent.
Wouldn't that be better?"

"Very well. Now, about sweets."

"This letter," Miriam said, bending over it and growing bold in the
knowledge that Uncle Alfred was not far off, "this letter looks as if it
wants to be opened. All the way from Italy," she mumbled so that Mildred
Caniper could not distinguish the words, "and neglected when it gets
here. If he took the trouble to write to me, I wouldn't treat him like
that. Poor letter! Poor Mr. Caniper! No wonder he went away to Italy."
She stood up. "His writing is very straggly," she said clearly.

Mildred Caniper put out a hand which Miriam pretended not to see.

"Shall I order the chickens?" she asked; but no one answered, for h