Then Lily had gone away to school. How carefully the school had been selected! When she came back, however, there had been no more questions, and Grace had sighed with relief. That bad time was over, anyhow. But Lily was rather difficult those days. She seemed, in some vague way, resentful. Her mother found her, now and then, in a frowning, half-defiant mood. And once, when Mademoiselle had ventured some jesting remark about young Alston Denslow, she was stupefied to see the girl march out of the room, her chin high, not to be seen again for hours. Grace's mind was sub-consciously remembering those things even when she spoke. “I didn't know you were having to learn about that side of life,” she said, after a brief silence. “That side of life is life, mother,” Lily said gravely. But Grace did not reply to that. It was characteristic of her to follow her own line of thought. “I wish you wouldn't tell your grandfather. You know he feels strongly about some things. And he hasn't forgiven me yet for letting you go.” Rather diffidently Lily put her hand on her mother's. She gave her rare caresses shyly, with averted eyes, and she was always more diffident with her mother than with her father. Such spontaneous bursts of affection as she sometimes showed had been lavished on Mademoiselle. It was Mademoiselle she had hugged rapturously on her small feast days, Mademoiselle who never demanded affection, and so received it. “Poor mother!” she said, “I have made it hard for you, haven't I? Is he as bad as ever?” She had not pinned on the violets, but sat holding them in her hands, now and then taking a luxurious sniff. She did not seem to expect a reply. Between Grace and herself it was quite understood that old Anthony Cardew was always as bad as could be. “There is some sort of trouble at the mill. Your father is worried.” And this time it was Lily who did not reply. She said, inconsequentially: “We're saved, and it's all over. But sometimes I wonder if we were worth saving. It all seems such a mess, doesn't it?” She glanced out. They were drawing up before the house, and she looked at her mother whimsically. “The last of the Cardews returning from the wars!” she said. “Only she is unfortunately a she, and she hasn't been any nearer the war than the State of Ohio.” Her voice was gay enough, but she had a quick vision of the grim old house had she been the son they had wanted to carry on the name, returning from France.