"Oh, no, that could not have been said," she cried; "unless Mrs. Moffit,
the agent, made the mistake. It was my uncle who died in India. No one
here ever questioned me about my parents, knowing they were dead. Oh,
dear," she went on in agitation, after a silent pause, "what am I to do
now? I cannot stay at the Hall. Captain Monk would not allow it either."

"No need to tell him," quoth Mr. Harry.

"And--of course--we must part. You and I."

"Indeed! Who says so?"

"I am not sure that it would be right to--to--you know."

"To what? Go on, my dear."

Alice sighed; her eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the fast falling
twilight. "Mrs. Carradyne will not care for me when she knows who I am,"
she said in low tones.

"My dear, shall I tell you how it strikes me?" returned Harry: "that my
mother will be only the more anxious to have you connected with us by
closer and dearer ties, so as to atone to you, in even a small degree,
for the cruel wrong which fell upon your father. As to me--it shall be
made my life's best and dearest privilege."

But when a climax such as this takes place, the right or the wrong thing
to be done cannot be settled in a moment. Alice West did not see her way
quite clearly, and for the present she neither said nor did anything.

This little matter occurred on the Friday in Christmas week; on the
following day, Saturday, Mrs. Hamlyn was returning to London. Christmas
Day this year had fallen on a Monday. Some old wives hold a superstition
that when that happens, it inaugurates but small luck for the following
year, either for communities or for individuals. Not that that fancy has
anything to do with the present history. Captain Monk's banquet would
not be held until the Monday night: as was customary when New Year's Eve
fell on a Sunday. He had urged his daughter to remain over New Year's
Day; but she declined, on the plea that as she had been away from her
husband on Christmas Day, she would like to pass New Year's Day with
him. The truth being that she wanted to get to London to see after that
yellow-haired lady who was supposed to be peeping after Philip Hamlyn.

On the Saturday morning, Mrs. Hamlyn was driven to Evesham in the close
carriage, and took the train to London. Her husband, ever kind and
attentive, met her at the Paddington terminus. He was looking haggard,
and seemed to be thinner than when she left him nine days ago.

"Are you well, Philip?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, quit