"So you see how I did it all for the best, mother. You see how important it was to learn the truth, and at once, without troubling you, dearest, if I could possibly help it." "Yes, dearie, I do see. So, I know, does Paul. Do not be troubled about it any more. Only remember that we must, none of us, defy certain conventionalities—we must observe rules by which to regulate our behaviour. They mostly have their good sense and usefulness, though at times we may find them irksome, and tiresome to follow, and feel impatient at their restrictions." "Yes, mother," rejoined the pretty penitent, meekly. And then followed one of those close embraces in which mother and daughter were wont to indulge at the termination of every discourse between them, that held in it anything in the nature of reprimand and submission; expressing full, free, and loving forgiveness on the mother’s part, and sincere contrition and penitence on the part of the loving daughter. But the discomforting impression that Hazel had received, that Paul might be thinking her forward, proved disastrous to that young man’s peace; for Hazel did her utmost to avoid him, and managed, with most unlooked-for success, to elude meetings—generally slipping away to her own room if he came to the house, and seldom risking discovery by spending much time in her tree; though, had he but known it, one Sunday morning she was holding church there, as was her wont; but she kept so absolutely still, as he passed beneath the branches, the full midsummer leafage of which afforded so complete a screen as to hide entirely any living thing that took refuge there among, be it bird, beast, or—girl, that she was not discovered. One morning poor Hazel’s story was returned, with the editor’s compliments and regrets. The girl retired within herself, concerning this great disappointment, until such time as she could confide in Teddie, and receive advice as to her further movements. Saturday came at last, and a very sober Hazel met the afternoon train, bringing Teddie alone. Gerald, he said, was following by the next. "And it is just as well, Hazel," the boy added, wearily. "I am nearly off my head with worry. And though, of course, you cannot help a fellow, still you can sympathise with a chap and ease him a bit." At once Hazel’s own troubles became insignificant, and she was all attention; but, as was her custom, she did not press her sympathy upon him in words, but walked on beside him, earnest-faced and ready-witted, waiting for what he should choose to tell her. "I want five pounds," her brother broke out at length, "and five pounds I must have." Hazel’s heart sank. What a nuisance money was! "Now the question is how I am to get it," Teddie went on. "Your story will bring in quite that—and you would, I know, lend me the cash. But goodness knows when you will hear of it again. Editors are the dickens for keeping people waiting."