Winnie was seated in a cavernous chair, looking extremely comfortable, and, apparently, occupied with a late magazine. She glanced up as Alan entered, then hastily resumed her reading. Seeing her so deeply absorbed, he crossed the room, and looked out upon the street for a moment, then slowly turned his back upon the window and began a steady march up and down the drawing-room, keeping to the end farthest from that occupied by Winnie, and casting upon her, when his march brought her within view, long, earnest glances. That she was wilfully feigning unconsciousness of his presence, he felt assured. That she should finally recognize that presence, he was obstinately determined. But Winnie is not as composed as she seems, and his steady march up and down becomes very irritating. Lowering her book suddenly, she turns sharply in her chair. "Mr. Warburton, allow me to mention that your boots creak," she says tartly. "I beg your pardon, Winnie." "No, you do not! I can't see why you must needs choose this room for your tramping, when all the house is quite at your disposal." Alan stops and stands directly before her. "I came, Winnie, because you were here," he says gently. "Well," taking up her book and turning her shoulder towards him, "if you can't make yourself less disagreeable, I shall leave, presently, because _you_ are here." Paying no heed to her petulant words, he draws forward a chair and seats himself before her. "Winnie," he says gravely, "what is this that I hear from your mother: you wish to leave Warburton Place?" "I intend to leave Warburton Place." "Why, Winnie?" "Pray don't make my name the introduction or climax to all your sentences, Mr. Warburton; I quite comprehend that you are addressing me. Why do I leave Warburton Place? Because I have staid long enough. I have staid on, for Leslie's sake, until I'm discouraged with waiting." There is a flush upon her cheeks and a hysterical quiver in her voice. "I have remained because it was _her_ home, and at _her_ request. Now that her absence makes you master here, I will stay no longer. It was you who drove her away with your base, false suspicions. I will never forgive you; I will never--" There is a sound behind her. She has risen to her feet, and she sees that Alan is not heeding her words; his eyes are turned toward the door; they light up strangely, and as he springs forward, Winnie hastily turns. Standing in the doorway, pale and careworn but slightly smiling, is Leslie Warburton, and she holds little Daisy tightly clasped in her arms; Daisy Warburton surely, though so pallid, and clad in rags! As Alan springs forward, she holds out the child. "Alan, I have kept my word," she says gently, wearily; "I have brought back little Daisy." It is the end of her wonderful endurance. As Alan snatches the child to his breast, she sinks forward and again, as on that last day of her presence here, she lies senseless at his feet.