Anstice and Brenda were both busy cutting and shaping some frocks for the little girls out of some white serge on the nursery table. Ruffie was lying on his couch by the window, very busy with pencil and paper. He hailed his father's appearance with joy. "Come and see what I am drawing. And wouldn't you like me to come on my pony with you?" His father came over to the couch. "No, my boy. I want Steppie by herself. When you are with us, she is too busy talking to you to talk to me." "I will come in ten minutes," Anstice said, looking up from her cutting-out. "Then I'll order the horses. Ruffie, my boy, what awful tragedy are you depicting?" "It's a car turned nearly topsy-turvy on Scawfell, and there's the lady crying, and Steppie and I coming to rescue her. It's all true, and she said she knew you as a little boy. Wasn't that funny?" "Lots of people knew me as a boy," said his father. He was looking at his son's picture with a mixture of admiration and amusement. Ruffie's figures were wonderfully clever, and looked alive, though technically there were many mistakes. "She had eyes like yours, Dad." Then the observant child looked straight into his father's face. "But your eyes smile now, they never used to; and they seem to melt when you look at Steppie. You won't take her for a very long ride, will you, and forget all about tea, and us afterwards?" "I'll try not to," his father assured him, and then he left the room, and twenty minutes later he and Anstice were starting for a ride amongst the Fells. He was talking to her about Ruffie's talent for drawing, and they were arranging that he should have lessons from an artist whom Anstice had heard about and who lived in Penrith, when she suddenly said: "Do you know the name of the lady whom we met on the Fells?" "No; one of our neighbours, I suppose." "It was your sister." Justin did not speak for a moment, then he said, "Did she make herself known to you?" "No, I saw she did not wish to do so, but she seemed to be much impressed with Ruffie. Justin, cannot we be friends?" "What would you have me do?" "I know you have made overtures to her. You have told me so before; but won't you make another effort? Just one more. It seems so sad to me that the children should not know the only relative they have." "She is an unforgiving woman." Justin's voice was hard. "A North-country woman," said Anstice with a smile; "but North-country people are as deep in their loves as in their dislikes. What can we do? How can we win her?" "Why should you trouble yourself about her?" "Well, ever since Miss Maybrick's death, I have been wanting you to make it up with her. That seemed such a tragedy; and now, too late, the one sister left, mourns for the one she quarrelled with. Life here isn't very long; and your sister is getting old, much older than you, isn't she?"