After endless ages of darkness and terror and misery she heard voices--then HIS voice! She jumped out of the wardrobe and listened. Yes; it WAS his voice. She pushed back the door, crept down the passage, and came suddenly upon a little group, with Jeremy in its midst, crowded together at the top of the stairs. Jeremy was wrapped up in his father's heavy coat, and looked very small and impish as he peered from out of it. He was greatly excited, his eyes shining, his mouth smiling, his cheeks flushed. His audience consisted of Helen, Mrs. Cole, Miss Jones, and Aunt Amy. He described to them how he had run along the road “for miles and miles and miles,” how at last he had found the farm, had rung the bell, and inquired, and discovered Hamlet licking up sugary tea in the farm kitchen; there had then been a rapturous meeting, and he had boldly declared that he could find his way home again without aid. “They wanted me to be driven home in their trap, but I wasn't going to have that. They'd been at the fair all day, and didn't want to go out again. I could see that.” So he and Hamlet started gaily on their walk home, and then, in some way or another, he took the wrong turn, and suddenly they were in Mellot Wood. “It was dark as anything, you know, although there was going to be a moon. We couldn't see a thing, and then I got loster and loster. At last we just sat under a tree. There was nothing more to do!” Then, apparently, Jeremy had slept, and had, finally, been found in the proper romantic manner by Jim and his father. “Well, all's well that ends well,” said Aunt Amy, with a sniff. In spite of that momentary softness over the defeat of the Dean's Ernest she liked her young nephew no better than of old. She had desired that he should be punished for this, but as she looked at the melting eyes of Mrs. Cole and Miss Jones she had very little hope. Mary was forgotten; no one noticed her. “Bed,” said Mrs. Cole. “Really, what a terrible affair,” said Miss Jones. “And I can't help feeling that it was my fault.” “What Mary--” began Mrs. Cole. And then she stopped. She had perhaps some sense that Mary had already received sufficient punishment. Mary waited, standing against the passage wall. Jeremy, who had not seen her, vanished into his room. She waited, then plucking up all her courage with the desperate suffocating sense of a prisoner laying himself beneath the guillotine, she knocked timidly on his door. He said: “Come in,” and entering, she saw him, in his braces, standing on a chair trying to put the picture entitled “Daddy's Christmas” straight upon its nail. The sight of this familiar task--the picture would never hang straight, although every day Jeremy, who, strangely enough, had an eye to such matters, tried to correct it--cheered her a little. “Won't it go straight?” she said feebly. “No, it won't,” he began, and then, suddenly realising the whole position, stopped. “I'm sorry, Jeremy,” she muttered, hanging her head down.