Five minutes later, Mrs. Carfax entered a room bright with fire and candle-light, in which her husband sat comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair opposite to Miss Page, who was passing him hot cakes of a delicious crispness. Anne went quickly across the room. “It’s quite right. Don’t worry,” she hastened to say, as she kissed her visitor. “I’m just telling your husband all about it.” “Sylvia must come home!” declared her mother, after Anne’s recital. Her hand was still trembling as she put down her tea-cup. “She’s not fit to be left alone in a great wicked city. I always _said_ to George it was madness to let her go away from us!” “It’s so difficult to get women to take broad views,” complained the Vicar, turning to Anne, “it requires the masculine mind, free from prejudice and indifferent to common opinion, to see the wider outlook.” Anne laid her hand on his wife’s arm. “Dear Mrs. Carfax, do let her finish her training,” she urged. “The child acknowledges her foolishness. I quite agree that she ought not to be alone, and before you came in, I was suggesting a plan to your husband. “Let her go to my brother and his wife. They lost their little girl some years ago, and Alice has always longed for a daughter. She’s such a nice kind little woman, and she would treat Sylvia as her own child. I spoke to her of the possibility of this, before I left London, and she was delighted with the idea.” “It would be a splendid thing for her, Mary, if it can be arranged. It’s so like Miss Page to have thought of such a plan.” Mrs. Carfax hesitated. “We must think about it. I wouldn’t give my consent for her to go anywhere else. But if it’s a case of _your_ relations, dear, it’s different. I should feel safe and happy about her, of course. We must talk about it, George.” Anne leant back against her sofa cushions with a satisfied expression. When her visitors rose to go, she followed them to the door. While his wife was being helped into her goloshes by Burks, outside in the hall, the Vicar lingered a moment to hold her hand in a tight grasp. “I can never thank you enough,” he murmured. “You are the best woman I ever met,” he added, looking her straight in the face. Anne flushed a little; there were tears in her eyes. “Good-bye,” she said. “I shall look forward to having Sylvia here next week.” * * * * * When the hall door had closed, she drew a deep breath of exhaustion and relief. She had won peace with honour. She knew it, and was thankful. But she was glad to be alone. She walked round the room, bending over the pots of lilies of the valley, touching the waxen bells of the hyacinths with gentle fingers. They had been grown for her home-coming, and they welcomed her delicately. She stirred the fire to a brighter blaze, and smiled to see its glow spreading to the furthest corner of the room. Never had her home seemed so sweet, so inviting, so restful.