It was brief and pathetic, beseeching Mrs. French to go at once to Warburton Place; to dwell there as its mistress; to look upon it as her home, and Winnie's, until such time as Leslie should return, or Mr. Follingsbee should indicate to her a change of plan. Would Mrs. French forgive this appearance of mystery, and believe and trust in her still? Would she keep her home open for Alan, and a welcome ever ready for the lost Daisy, who must surely return some day? Everything could be arranged with Mr. Follingsbee; and Leslie's love and gratitude would be always hers. This note was somewhat incoherent, for it was the last written by Leslie, and her nerves had been taxed, perhaps, in the writing of the longer epistle to Mr. Follingsbee. Brief and fragmentary as it was, it furnished to Winnie and her mother food for much wonderment, long discussion, and sincere sorrow. "Oh, Mamma!" cried Winnie, choking back a sob, "some terrible trouble has come upon Leslie; and Alan Warburton is at the bottom of it!" "My child!" "I tell you he _is_!" vehemently. "And only yesterday Leslie would have told me all, but for him." "Winnie, compose yourself; try and be calm," said Mrs. French soothingly. "I _can't_ compose myself! I _won't_ be calm! I _want_ to be so angry when Alan Warburton returns for me, that I can fairly scorch him with my contempt! I want to _annihilate_ him!" And Winnie flung herself upon her mother's breast, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing. Sorely puzzled, and very anxious, Mrs. French soothed her daughter with gentle, motherly words, and gradually drew from her an account of the events of the past two days, as they were known to Winnie. "And so, between his interruption and your refusal to listen to him afterward, you are quite in the dark as to this strange misunderstanding between Leslie and Mr. Warburton?" said Mrs. French musingly. "Misunderstanding! You give it a mild name, Mamma. Would a mere misunderstanding with any one, bring such a look to Leslie's face as I saw there when I left her alone with him? Would it leave her in a deathly faint at its close? Would it drive her from her home, secretly, like a fugitive? Would it cause Alan Warburton to address such words to me as those he uttered in his study? Because of a simple misunderstanding, would he implore me to judge between them? Mamma, there is more than a _misunderstanding_ at the bottom of all this mystery. Somewhere, there is a monstrous _wrong_!" But discuss the mystery as they would, there seemed no satisfactory, no rational explanation. The evening wore on, and the ringing of the door-bell suddenly apprised them of the lateness of the hour. "It's Alan!" exclaimed Winnie, starting nervously. "Mamma, we can't, we won't, go with him." But it was not Alan. It was a servant, bearing a message from Mr. Follingsbee. A matter of importance had suddenly called Mr. Warburton away. Mr. Follingsbee would wait upon the ladies in the morning.