Olivia was too tired to do more than wonder vaguely as she listened; the sight of her own little parlour and Martha's sturdy figure arranging the tea-table gave her a pleasant revulsion of feeling. When Martha whispered confidentially, as she brought in the lamp, "The seed-cake is nicely baked; hadn't I better bring it in, ma'am?" Olivia gave a little hysterical laugh. After all that tragedy it was so odd to think of freshly baked cakes. "Yes, yes, and make the tea quickly," she said, waving off the little handmaiden impatiently; and Martha, somewhat affronted and vaguely alarmed, retreated to the kitchen. "What's come over the mistress?" she said to herself. "I have never known her so huffy." But Olivia, with difficulty recovering her calmness, busied herself in ministering to her guests. "Mr. Alwyn," she said, gently, "you must rest on that couch--you are just worn out; but a cup of tea will do you good. Greta, you must stop and have some too. Do you know this is the first time you have entered this house? Dot is asleep. I am going up to see her now. Would you like to come too?"--for she guessed intuitively that the girl was longing to question her--and Greta, with a grateful look, followed her at once. Olivia kissed the sleeping child with her usual tenderness. How she longed to lie down beside Dot and sleep off her overpowering weariness; but the day's work was not over. Greta, who had only just glanced at the little one, put her arms suddenly round Olivia and drew her down beside her. "Mrs. Luttrell," she said, breathlessly, "tell me what it all means. What has happened to Alwyn, and what makes him talk so strangely? Do you know, for one moment, I believed him! In the old time they often quarrelled--but of course it is paralysis." And then Olivia told her all that had occurred that afternoon. Greta listened with painful attention; then her eyes filled with tears. "And he never knew that his mother and Olive were dead," she observed. "Oh, Mrs. Luttrell, how sad--how terribly sad it all is! No wonder he looked bewildered, poor fellow; it must have been such an awful shock to hear that, and then to see his poor father fall at his feet." "Yes, and he had been ill too; think of all the hardships he has been through." And Greta shivered as Olivia said this. "How little I thought," she said, "that when you were telling me about the poor young artist that Dr. Luttrell had found on the doorstep on Christmas night, that it was Alwyn Gaythorne, my old playmate and friend!" Then she added, with a sigh, "What would his poor mother have said? She and Olive almost worshipped that boy." "We ought not to leave him too long alone," observed Olivia, wearily. "I promised my husband that I would look after him. We must coax him to take some food, and then he must go to bed; he is very weak still, and all this has exhausted him." And as Greta evidently shared her anxiety, they went back to the parlour.