"I do agree so entirely with you about being very careful who one engages as a nurse for a little child. I often feel that Baba's whole future depends on the hands that mould her now, when her dear little character is so much clay, to be made into what shape the hands choose." Sir Arthur, let loose on another of his favourite hobby-horses, the education of the young, forgot to notice that his cousin's pretty widow had omitted to answer the question he had put to her, and cantering away on the above horse, did not realise that he was as ignorant as before, about Christina's references. He was still descanting forcibly on the most absolutely perfect, and, in fact, the only way of training a child in the way it should go, when the door of the hotel sitting-room opened, and Lady Congreve entered. She was a depressed-looking little woman, with the meek mouth and deprecating eyes of a wife whose lord's word is law--and more than law--and her first glance was not for their guest, but for the masterful gentleman standing with legs firmly apart on the hearth-rug, giving his opinion, in the full certainty that Cicely's interested attention, signified complete acquiescence in all his views. "Ah! my dear, there you are," he broke off to say, with a gracious wave of his hand to his wife. "Cicely and I have been talking about education, and I am glad to think she sees matters quite as I see them." The tiniest smile dimpled about Cicely's mouth. Sir Arthur's interpretation of her total silence during his harangue, pleased her sense of humour, but, being of a peace-loving disposition, and averse to argument, especially with such an obstinately one-sided arguer as Sir Arthur, she allowed his statement to pass without contradiction, and greeted Lady Congreve with the charming cordiality, that gave her so delightful a personality. "I am so sorry you have to be in town at this time of the year, just when you must want to be at home," she said sympathetically. Lady Congreve cast another fleeting glance at her husband, then looked with a sigh round the stiffly-furnished sitting-room, with its suite of brightly upholstered furniture, and its particularly unhomelike air. "It is a great disappointment to us both," she answered, in her soft, deprecating voice, that to Cicely always seemed to be apologising for daring to make itself heard at all. "I dislike this terribly noisy, wicked city as much as dear Arthur does; and we had looked forward to our usual pleasant Christmas gathering. To me, Christmas is scarcely Christmas if it is not spent in a home--a real home."