Daisy went up to her pretty suite of rooms with their ivied balcony. She did not notice the details of their furnishings now with quite so fresh and keen a pleasure as on that first morning, now two months past, when she had opened new-waked eyes in the dainty, pink bedroom. She stepped about now with a casual and proprietary air--turning the shower on in the bathroom for a cooling splash after her recent game of tennis with young Lord Arthur, (Ware's second cousin, "just out")--laying out a simple, girlish dress from her well-stocked wardrobe--shaking out a folded towel or two and laying them handily on the glass rack at the end of the bathtub. Ada the maid was at her service if she cared to ring. But Daisy had been her own maid for seventeen years and intended to keep on in the same way. Only a few moments elapsed till, smart and parasolled, she stepped out through the side door and into the cinder-path that led, with many a leisurely looping, to the picket-gate that gave to the street. Life at the Wares' had wrought some changes in her appearance. The color in her face was more delicate, and her skin clearer. Her modiste had corseted her in long willowy lines, so that, although her height had not increased a particle, she looked taller. Her ankles, in their silk stockings, showed a more shapely fulness where they met the hem of her short neat walking-skirt. She passed from the residential street to a corner where a trolley-line crossed, and caught a car. It was the Wares' chauffeur's afternoon "off", and Daisy's own little runabout was being repaired at the garage downtown. Her destination was the postoffice. She had answered that grim letter from her mother with a brief note in which she had asked that any further letters from the home farm should be addressed to her, in her maiden name, at the city "general delivery". Her object in this note, which mentioned nothing of her marriage, was to pique the curiosity of John Nixon and his wife, so that they would, in all probability, actually fulfil their expressed intention of coming to town and taking her back to the farm. She had not called at the "general delivery" wicket since despatching this note home; and this was her self-appointed mission to-day. Evidently she had succeeded in waking the interest of her mother and stepfather; for the clerk, with a smile, passed out a letter addressed in the sloping irregular handwriting of Mrs. Lovina Nixon; the postmark showing it had been in the office some days. Daisy took the missive to one of the side-tables and opened it.