'It has not been so long after all,' observed Mildred, cheerfully. She did not feel cold or particularly tired; pleasant dreams had come to her; some thoughtful hand had drawn the fur-lined rug round her as she slept. As they jolted out of the light station and into the dark Euston Road beyond, she sat thoughtful and silent, reviewing the work that lay before her. It was late in the evening when the travellers reached the little cottage at Frognal. Roy had taken a fancy to the place, and had migrated thither the previous summer, in company with a young artist named Dugald. It was a low, old-fashioned house, somewhat shabby-looking by daylight, but standing back from the road, with a pleasant strip of garden lying round it, and an invisible walk formed of stunted, prickly shrubs, which had led its owner to give it the name of 'The Hollies.' Roy had fallen in love with the straggling lawn and mulberry trees, and beds of old-fashioned flowers. He declared the peonies, hollyhocks, and lupins, and small violet-and-yellow pansies, reminded him of Castlesteads Vicarage; for it was well known that Mr. Delaware clave with fondness to the flowers of his childhood, and was much given to cultivate all manner of herbs, to be used medicinally by the poor of the neighbourhood. A certain long, low room, with an out-of-the-way window, was declared to have the north light, and to be just the thing for a studio, and was shared conjointly by the young artists, who also took their frugal meals together, and smoked their pipes in a dilapidated arbour overlooking the mulberry-tree. Mildred knew that Herbert Dugald was at the present moment in Mentone, called thither by the alarming illness of his father, and that his room had been placed at Roy's disposal. The cottage was a large one, and she thought there would be little difficulty in accommodating Polly and herself; and as Mrs. Madison had no other lodgers, they could count on a tolerable amount of quiet and comfort; and in spite of the quaintness and homeliness of the arrangements, they found this to be the case. Dr. Heriot had telegraphed their probable arrival, so they were not unexpected. Mrs. Madison, an artist's widow herself, welcomed them with unfeigned delight; her pleasant, sensible Scotch face broadened with smiles as she came forward to meet them. 'Eh, he's better, poor lad, though I never thought to say it,' she said, answering Mildred's anxious look. 'He would not let me write, as I wished, for fear of alarming his father, he said; but as soon as the letter was posted, he made me telegraph for his brother; he arrived last evening.' 'Richard!' ejaculated Mildred, feeling things were worse than even she had expected; but at that moment Richard appeared, gently closing the door behind him.