me when you feel disposed. I suppose you like pretty
things as much as other girls.' And he would not let me even thank him
for his generosity.

Aunt Philippa only smiled when I showed her the cheque.

'My dear, your uncle likes to do it, and you must not be too proud to
accept his gifts: you may need it some day. We have only two daughters:
as it is, Jocelyn will be far too rich. I do not like the idea that
Harley's child should want anything.' And she kissed me with tears in her
eyes.

Dear Aunt Philippa! she had grown quite motherly during those three
weeks.

It was a lovely June afternoon: when I started from Victoria there was a
scent of hay in the air. Jill had brought with her to the station a great
basketful of roses and narcissus and heliotrope, and had put it on the
seat beside me that its fragrance might refresh me.

I felt a strange sort of excitement and pleasure at the thought of
returning home. Mrs. Barton would be glad to get me back, I knew. Uncle
Max would not be at the station to meet me, for he had written to say
that he was still detained at Norwich. His cousin was dead, and had left
him her little property,--some six or seven hundred a year. There were
some valuable books and antiquities, and some old silver besides. He was
the only near relation, and business connected with the property would
oblige him to remain for another week or ten days. I was rather sorry to
hear this, for Heathfield was not the same without Uncle Max.

But not even Uncle Max's absence could damp me, I felt so light-hearted.
'I hope I am not fey,' I said to myself, with a little thrill of
excitement and expectation as the familiar station came in view. Never
since Charlie's death had I felt so cheerful and full of life.

Nathaniel was on the platform to look after my luggage, so I walked up
the hill quietly, with my basket of flowers. As I passed the vicarage,
Mr. Tudor came out and walked with me to the gate of the White Cottage.
I had a dim suspicion that he had been watching for me.

Of course he asked after the family at Hyde Park Gate, and was most
particular in his inquiries after Aunt Philippa. Just at the last he
mentioned Jill.

'I hope your cousin Jocelyn is well,--I mean none the worse for her
accident,' he said, turning very red.

'Oh no,' I returned carelessly; 'nothing hurts Jill. She was riding in
the Park the next morning as though nothing had happened.'

'I remember you told me so, when I calle