glad to see you, dear." Her earnest
face brightened with a wistful yet pleasant smile.

He stooped and kissed her, then followed her into her tiny sitting-room.
It was evidently the home of a gentlewoman. With the shelf or two of
books, the escritoire, the few prints, and the little trinkets and
photographs she valued, she had contrived to make a dainty little nest
of it, and all these simple things gave the place a peculiar personal
stamp. The table was laid for tea, and the kettle sang on the fire.

"You have had a dreary journey," she said, as she gave him a chair.

"No, the weather has been unexpectedly kind," he reassured her. "The sun
peeped out just for one moment. I believe I was the only person in
London that noticed it: the rest of the world were intent on other
things. Have you been keeping well?"

"You forget I am just back from vacation."

"Of course--I had forgotten," he laughed. "How did you spend your time?"

"I passed the first three weeks with Aunt Eleanor, as I told you I
should. We were a big, merry party, and everybody made a great fuss of
your little sister." Again that wistful smile. "They all spoiled and
petted me shamefully."

"Ah, that was good for you."

"I am not so sure about that," she returned thoughtfully. "I am
certainly not used to the sort of thing, and I really found it restful
and refreshing to go on to old Lady Glynn, who had me to herself."

"So that's your idea of a holiday--taking care of paralytic, deaf old
people whom everybody else shuns like the plague." He shook his finger
at her. "And you call it restful and refreshing."

"Service is the greatest of all happiness," she answered gently. "Even
as it is, I'm sadly afraid I'm a sham and a fraud. I'm not really a
worker--in the same sense as others I know. They have no fashionable
friends with big houses in the country."

She brewed the tea and gave him his cup.

"Do people inquire much about me?" he asked, as the uncomfortable
thought recurred to him.

"Certainly not of me," she returned. "You neglect them, you refuse their
invitations, they never hear a word from you, and naturally they suppose
you wish to be quit of them all. And so, no doubt, they feel it the
proper thing not to appear to wish to discuss you with your sister."
There was a pause. Both seemed lost in thought for the moment. "And so
you, poor Walter, have had no holiday at all!"

"Ah, well," he sighed. "I try to content myself with the thought t