The house was still in a state of metaphorical curl-papers and overalls, for they intended to stay there only for one night. By Patricia’s orders, Mrs. Lowther—her old companion—had taken a small villa near Richmond, where the girl intended to live out her days. She established herself there the very next morning, thankful to have some occupation to distract her thoughts. The villa, which rejoiced in the romantic name of “Ivydene,” was light and pretty, and more attractive in its way than the solemn magnificence of the parental mansion. Mrs. Lowther, too, had done all in her power to make it home-like: there were bright fires in the grates and flowers in the vases, and the hundred and one little things which contribute to domestic comfort. The girl could not help feeling touched by the thoughtfulness which had evidently been expended on her account, and as she went over the small but prettily-decorated rooms, her eyes grew misty with no far-distant tears. There was one room in particular which held her spellbound, for the wall-paper depicted well-known nursery rhymes, such as “Jack and Jill,” “Little Miss Muffit,” and “Red Ridinghood”; and in one corner stood a brand-new rocking-horse. “I am so sorry,” Mrs. Lowther said, half-apologetically. “I had thought—had made sure—that you would bring your little boy.” And she wished she had had the tact not to allow the young mother to enter the room just then, for the sight of the childish appurtenances evidently called up an emotion of pain. But Patricia begged her not to be concerned. “It was very kind of you to take so much trouble,” she said, going to the window and looking at the tiny lawn without. “Oh, how I wish we could have Julian here! He is such a lovely boy, Lowthy, and so wonderfully intelligent. It nearly broke my heart to have to leave him behind.” “I don’t know how you could,” her companion returned, almost severely. “It seems unnatural to part a mother from her child. If I had been you—” Patricia put up her hands as though to ward off a blow. “Yes, I know,” she put in hastily. “Don’t hurt me, dear. If you had been in my place you would have acted just the same. You don’t understand what Judaism is—how it used to rise up between the Montellas and myself like a wall. They would not let me bring baby away for fear I should make a Christian of him, which of course I should do; for I could not help wanting to consecrate his little life to Christ. Oh, I don’t wish to go over the whole story again; it is too painful. The Montellas are quite right from their point of view, and I am quite right from mine. We must all do what seems to be our duty according to our own conscience, even if it seems hard at the time.” Mrs. Lowther regarded her contemplatively.