"I foresee trouble ahead for you," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe with a smile and a little sigh; "because you will make other people's business your own. You always have." "The prospective husband will come along." "Oh, I don't believe in him—Miss Ward would have mentioned him had there been anything in it." "Miss Ward is kept in the dark a good deal." "Yes—well—the girl is coming to me next week, and I'll see what I can do with her. I'm really enjoying the prospect. She's so ridiculously young and fresh, and so world-old in her own opinion." Gentian arrived at Oakberry Hall towards the end of a bright April afternoon. The gardens in front of the house were a blaze of colour. Daffodils, hyacinths, narcissus, and tulips were all in their prime. Mrs. Wharnecliffe had had a wire in the middle of the day to say that Gentian was coming down by road. And about five o'clock, a light, fawn-coloured car rolled up the drive. Gentian was driving it, and was absolutely alone. Two neat suitcases and a hat-box were in the tonneau behind. She wore a close-fitting little brown-leather cap, and a leather coat, which she shed in the hall, and she stepped into the drawing-room looking as fresh and dainty as if she had only just dressed for her journey. "She's a little beauty. We've had no hitch, and I only went a couple of miles out of my way. You've very good roads from town. I've christened her 'Mousie.' I chose that colour because she doesn't show the dust. Have you a chauffeur? Will he look after her?" "Yes, he will do all that's necessary. Come and have some tea. I'm alone to-day. My husband will be very late home from town. So we'll have a tête-à-tête dinner." "And Cousin Thorold—I don't forget the 'cousin' you see—will not be here. I'm so glad. He's a little too interfering—means well, I dare say. I passed Winderball coming here, your nearest town, isn't it? I liked the look of it. It's quite big. I wonder if I could find an opening there. I should not mind settling near you, if you would leave me alone—I like you—no one could help liking you—you're so—so motherly." She was sitting on a low chair close to Mrs. Wharnecliffe, and just for a moment she laid a slender hand on that lady's arm. Mrs. Wharnecliffe's eyes grew misty. She thought of two small graves in the country churchyard close by. She had only had five years of motherliness, and then boy and girl had both left her in a virulent attack of scarlet fever. Gentian went on talking: