Marjorie hardly recognised her old home. It was over nine months since her brother had been convicted and sentenced. A change had taken place, too, in her, and she knew it. Six months abroad had made a great difference—mentally and physically. She had looked forward to returning to Blackthorn Farm in spite of its loneliness and the bitter memories she knew she would find there. Her father met her at Newton Abbot station, and it was some minutes before he found her in the crowd of passengers who alighted from the West of England express. To the old man it seemed as if she had grown up suddenly. Grown from a girl into a woman. From a farmer’s daughter into a lady. "Why, how swagger we have become," he smiled. "I almost took you for a Frenchwoman with that smart little hat and dress, and those ridiculous shoes! It’s lucky we haven’t brought the dogcart, so you won’t have to walk up the hills." Marjorie imagined they would take the train to Moretonhampstead, and from thence by motor omnibus to Post Bridge. When she had collected her luggage, John Dale led her across the bridge and out of the station. And there she saw Robert Despard waiting in a motor-car. He seized the reluctant hand she gave him, and after pressing it warmly, put it to his lips. "Welcome home!" he cried; then, turning to Dale: "By Jove, what a fine lady she’s become! She’ll be able to play the part to perfection, eh?" Marjorie flushed with resentment and disappointment. Despard was the last person in the world she wanted to see. "Have I got to drive home in that thing?" she cried, pointing disdainfully to the motor-car. While the luggage was being strapped on, Dale explained that it belonged to Mr. Despard, and that he kindly allowed them to make use of it. "It belongs to the syndicate," Despard replied. "There have been great happenings at Post Bridge since you went away, Marjorie. I’m afraid you’ll find the place changed—not the farmhouse itself, but the surrounding waste land." "Mr. Despard has discovered that we’ve been living with a fortune under our feet all these years," Dale explained. He looked anxiously at his daughter and took her hand; but she made no response. After two or three attempts at conversation when the car had started, Dale relapsed into silence. It was not easy to talk at the pace they went, with the wind singing in their ears. And in his heart, too, he felt a little afraid of Marjorie. A little frightened at the quick march of events since she had been away. And perhaps just a little ashamed.