Ogilvie within the cab, however, saw nothing. He was only conscious of the fact that he was drawing nearer and nearer to the house where his little daughter--but did his little daughter still live? Was Sibyl alive? That was the thought of all thoughts, the desire of all desires, which must soon be answered yea or nay. When the tired-out and stricken man heard the strains of the band, he did rouse himself, however, and began dimly to wonder if, after all, he had come to the wrong house. Were there two houses called Silverbel, and had the man taken him to the wrong one? He pulled up the cab to inquire. "No, sir," replied the driver, "it's all right. There ain't but one place named Silverbel here, and this is the place, sir. The lady is giving a big bazaar and her name is Mrs. Ogilvie." "Then Sibyl must have got well again," thought Ogilvie to himself. And just for an instant the heavy weight at his breast seemed to lift. He paid his fare, told the man to take his luggage round to the back entrance, and jumped out of the cab. The man obeyed him, and Ogilvie, just as he was, stepped across the lawn. He had the air of one who was neither a visitor nor yet a stranger. He walked with quick, short strides straight before him and presently he came full upon his wife in her silvery dress. A large white hat trimmed with pink roses reposed on her head. There were nature's own pink roses on her cheeks and smiles in her eyes. "Oh, Phil!" she cried, with a little start. She was quite clever enough to hide her secret dismay at his arriving thus, and at such a moment. She dropped some things she was carrying and ran toward him with her pretty hands outstretched. "Why, Phil!" she said again. "Oh, you naughty man, so you have come back. But why didn't you send me a telegram?" "I had not time, Mildred; I thought my own presence was best. How is the child?" "Oh, much the same--I mean she is going on quite, _quite_ nicely." "And what is this?" Ogilvie motioned with his hand as he spoke in the direction of the crowd of people, the marquee, and the band. The music of the band seemed to get on his brain and hurt him. "What is all this?" he repeated. "My dear Phil, my dear unpractical husband, this is a bazaar! Have you never heard of a bazaar before? A bazaar for the Cottage Hospital at Watleigh, the Home for Incurables; such a useful charity, Phil, and so much needed. The poor things are wanting funds dreadfully; they have got into debt, and something must be done to relieve them Think of all the dear little children in those wards, Phil; the Sisters have been obliged to refuse several cases lately. It is most pathetic, isn't it? Oh, by the way, Lord Grayleigh is here; you will be glad to see him?" "Presently, not now. How did you say Sibyl was?"