As she sat looking into the fire the afternoon following her return, Anne felt that it was good to be home. She glanced round the charming room, and experienced a thrill of pleasure. The fresh curtains at the windows with their rose garlands, pleased her eye. The inlaid cabinets, the tables, the dainty bookcases, shining and spotless from the maids’ energetic ministrations, reflected the firelight at every angle. The pictures she loved seemed even more beautiful for her absence, and the pots of lilies and hyacinths about the room filled the air with sweet scent. Anne looked from them to her books, as one glances from one loved face to another. It was good to be home, and she felt happy, and at rest. Painful misgivings had disappeared, and her mind was filled with contented thoughts of her friends. From Sylvia, inexpressibly relieved, she had just received a letter of girlish effusion and gratitude. It was in her hand as she sat smiling into the fire, glad to remember the girl as she had yesterday seen her, pretty once more, gay, and full of extravagantly noble resolutions for the future. Madge Dakin, who with her husband had returned a few days previously, she had already seen. She looked thin and pale still, but Anne was satisfied to hear that Harry was the dearest and best of men, and that she had never been so much in love with any one in her life. To-day Anne found the human comedy agreeable. A spectacle to be viewed with a smile from which tears of pity and sympathy were not very far removed. But the smile came first. She reflected that she must see the Vicar, and she was making up her mind to leave the fireside for that purpose, when the door opened, and he was announced. She rose quickly with an exclamation of pleasure, and went to meet him. He took her outstretched hand, but let it drop again immediately, and glancing at him with half-defined surprise, she saw that he wore his pulpit expression of slightly pompous gravity. “Sit down,” begged Anne, cordially. “I was just coming up to see you.” “Thank you,” said the Vicar, dropping heavily into the chair she indicated. “I saw Sylvia only yesterday. She sent many messages to you, and to her mother.” “Thank you,” repeated the Vicar. “It is distressing to me, but I am constrained to say I’m sorry you saw her,” he added after a moment’s hesitation. Anne looked at him in silence, and Mr. Carfax cleared his throat. “Miss Page,” he began, “I am here to speak on a very painful subject, and I think the sooner I mention it the better.” “Certainly,” said Anne, drawing herself back against the cushions of her chair. “I repeat, I am sorry you have seen my child, because in future, I say it with great reluctance, I wish her acquaintance with you to cease.” Anne still waited in silence, and again the Vicar cleared his throat. It was difficult to talk with her eyes upon him, and his carefully prepared speeches seemed a trifle ridiculous.