The journey home was broken by a night spent in Perth, and London was reached on the afternoon of a warm July day. The trees in the Park looked grey with dust, the air felt close and heavy after the exhilaration of the mountain breezes to which the travellers had become accustomed; even the house itself had a heavy, stuffy smell, despite the immaculate cleanliness of its _regime_. Jack Martin was waiting to take his wife back to Oxford Terrace, the children having already preceded her, and Margot felt a sinking of loneliness at being left to Agnes's tender mercies. "Dear me, child, what a wreck you look! Your Highland holiday has been a fine upset for us all. What did I tell you before you started? Perhaps another time you may condescend to listen to what I say!" Such was the ingratiating welcome bestowed upon the weary girl on her arrival; yet when Margot turned aside in silence, and made no response to the accompanying kiss of welcome, Agnes felt hurt and aggrieved. From morning to night she had bustled about the house, assuring herself that everything was in apple-pie order; arranging flowers, putting out treasures of fancy-work, providing comforts for the invalid. "And she never notices, nor says one word of thanks. I can't understand Margot!" said poor Agnes to herself for the hundredth time, as she seated herself at the head of the table for dinner. "Are there any letters for me, Agnes?" queried Margot anxiously. "One or two, I believe, and a paper or something of the sort. You can see them after dinner." "I want them now!" said Margot obstinately. She pushed back her chair from the table, and walked across the room to the desk where newly- arrived letters were laid out to await the coming of their owners. Three white envelopes lay there, and a rolled-up magazine, all addressed to herself. She flushed expectantly as she bent to examine the different handwritings. Two were uninterestingly familiar, belonging to faithful girl friends who had hastened to welcome her home; the third was unmistakably a man's hand,--small and compact, the letters fine, and accurately formed. A blessed intuition told Margot that her waiting was at an end, and that this was the message for which she had longed ever since her return to consciousness. With a swift movement she slipped the envelope into her pocket, to be opened later on in the privacy of her room, and returned to the table, bearing the other communications in her hand. "I should have thought that after six weeks' absence from home you might have been willing to talk to _me_, instead of wanting to read letters at your very first meal!" said Agnes severely; and Margot laughed in good- natured assent. "I won't open them! It was only curiosity to see what they were. I'll talk as much as you like, Aggie dear."