you are in such an unpleasant hum our.'

'But that's just what you oughtn't to do. When I'm left alone I sulk, and that's bad for all of us. If you would just get angry and give me what I deserve, it would be all over very soon.'

'You are always talking about "nice" people. Nice people don't have scenes of that kind.'

'No, I suppose not. And I'm very sorry, and if you'll let me beg your pardon—. There, and we might have made it up hours ago. I won't ask you to tell me what you think of Mr. Cobb. I've written him the kind of letter his impudence deserves.'

'Very well. We won't talk of it any more. And if you could be a little quieter in your manners, Louise—'

'I will, I promise I will! Let me say good-night to Mr. Mumford.'

For a day or two there was halcyon weather. On Saturday afternoon Louise hired a carriage and took her friends for a drive into the country; at her special request the child accompanied them. Nothing could have been more delightful. She had quite made up her mind to have a house, some day, at Sutton. She hoped the Mumfords would "always" live there, that they might perpetually enjoy each other's society. What were the rents? she inquired. Well, to begin with, she would be content with one of the smaller houses; a modest, semidetached little place, like those at the far end of Cedar Road. They were perfectly respectable—were they not? How this change in her station was to come about Louise offered no hint, and did not seem to think of the matter.

Then restlessness again came upon her. One day she all but declared her disappointment that the Mumfords saw so few people. Emmeline, repeating this to her husband, avowed a certain compunction.

'I almost feel that I deliberately misled her. You know, Clarence, in our first conversation I mentioned the Kirby Simpsons and Mrs. Hollings, and I feel sure she remembers. It wouldn't be nice to be taking her money on false pretences, would it?'

'Oh, don't trouble. It's quite certain she has someone in mind whom she means to marry before long.'

'I can't help thinking that. But I don't know who it can be. She had a letter this morning in a man's writing, and didn't speak of it. It wasn't Mr. Cobb.'

Louise, next day, put a point-blank question.

'Didn't you say that you knew some people at West Kensington?'

'Oh, yes,' answered Emmeline, carelessly. 'The Kirby Simpsons. They're away from home.'

'I'm sorry for that. Isn't there anyone else we could go and see, or ask over here?'

'I think it very likely Mr. Bilton will come down in a few days.'

Louise received Mr. Bilton's name with moderate interest. But she dropped the subject, and seemed to reconcile herself to domestic pleasures.

It was on the evening of this day that Emmeline received a letter which gave her much annoyance. Her sister, Mrs. Grove, wrote thus:

'How news does get about! And what ridiculous forms it takes! Here is Mrs. Powell writing to me from Birmingham, and she says she has heard that you have taken in the daughter of some wealthy parvenu, for a consideration, to train her in the ways of decent society! Just the kind of thing Mrs. Powell would delight in talking about—she is so very malicious. Where she got her information I can't imagine. She doesn't give the slightest hint. "They tell me"—I copy her words—"that the girl is all but a savage, and does and says the most awful things. I quite admire Mrs. Mumford's courage. I've heard of people doing this kind of thing, and I always wondered how they got on with their friends." Of course I have written to contradict this rubbish. But it's very annoying, I'm sure.'

Mumford was angry. The source of these fables must be either Bilton or Dunnill, yet he had not thought either of them the kind of men to make mischief. Who else knew anything of the affair? Searching her memory, Emmeline recalled a person unknown to her, a married lady, who had dropped in at Mrs. Grove's when she and Louise were there.

'I didn't like her—a supercilious sort of person. And she talked a great deal of her acquaintance with important people. It's far more likely to have come from her than from either of those men. I shall write and tell Molly so.'

They began to feel uncomfortable, and seriously thought of getting rid of the burden so imprudently undertaken. Louise, the next day, wanted to take Emmeline to town, and showed dissatisfaction when she had to go unaccompanied. She stayed till late in the evening, and came back with a gay account of her calls upon two or three old friends—the girls of whom she had spoken to Mrs. Mumford. One of them, Miss Featherstone, she had taken to dine with her at a restaurant, and afterwards they had spent an hour or two at Miss Featherstone's lodgings.

'I didn't go near Tulse Hill, and if you knew how I am wondering what is going on there! Not a line from anyone. I shall write to mother to-morrow.'

Emmeline produced a letter which had arrived for Miss Derrick.

'Why didn't you give it me before?' Louise exclaimed, impatiently.

'My dear, you had so much to tell me. I waited for the first pause.'

'That isn't from home,' said the girl, after a glance at the envelope. 'It's nothing.'

After saying good-night, she called to Emmeline from her bedroom door. Entering the room, Mrs. Mumford saw the open letter in Louise's hand, and read in her face a desire of confession.

'I want to tell you something. Don't be in a hurry; just a few minutes. This letter is from Mr. Bowling. Yes, and I've had one from him before, and I was obliged to answer it.'

'Do you mean they are love-letters?'

'Yes, I'm afraid they are. And it's so stupid, and I'm so vexed. I don't want to have anything to do with him, as I told you long ago.' Louise often used expressions which to a stranger would have implied that her intimacy with Mrs. Mumford was of years' standing. 'He wrote for the first time last week. Such a silly letter! I wish you would read it. Well, he said that it was all over between him and Cissy, and that he cared only for me, and always had, and always would—you know how men write. He said he considered himself quite free. Cissy had refused him, and wasn't that enough? Now that I was away from home, he could write to me, and wouldn't I let him see me? Of course I wrote that I didn't want to see him, and I thought he was behaving very badly—though I don't really think so, because it's all that idiot Cissy's fault. Didn't I do quite right?'

'I think so.'

'Very well. And now he's writing again, you see; oh, such a lot of rubbish! I can hear him saying it all through his nose. Do tell me what I ought to do next.'

'You must either pay no attention to the letter, or reply so that he can't possibly misunderstand you.'

'Call him names, you mean?'

'My dear Louise!'

'But that's the only way with such men. I suppose you never were bothered with them. I think I'd better not write at all.'

Emmeline approved this course, and soon left Miss Derrick to her reflections.

The next day Louise carried out her resolve to write for information regarding the progress of things at Coburg Lodge. She had not long to wait for a reply, and it was of so startling a nature that she ran at once to Mrs. Mumford, whom she found in the nursery.

'Do please come down. Here's something I must tell you about. What do you think mother says? I've to go back home again at once.'

'What's the reason?' Emmeline inquired, knowing not whether to be glad or sorry.

'I'll read it to you:—"Dear Lou," she says, "you've made a great deal of trouble, and I hope you're satisfied. Things are all upside down, and I've never seen dada"—that's Mr. Higgins, of course—"I've never seen dada in such a bad temper, not since first I knew him. Mr. B."—that's Mr. Bowling, you know—"has told him plain that he doesn't think any more of Cissy, and that nothing mustn't be expected of him."—Oh what sweet letters mother