times--to be soothed and caressed. Even Mr. Vincent felt that Hannah was a hard nut to crack; but he contented himself with the thought that some day Margaret would break away from her present surroundings--a beautiful girl, who had read a good deal and was cultivating the habit of thinking, was not likely to make Woodside Farm her whole share of the world. The beginning of the end came one October morning in a letter from his brother in Australia. It had been sent under cover to his lawyers; for, though in a general way, the brothers knew each other's whereabouts, in detail they knew nothing. Cyril Vincent (he was now, of course, Lord Eastleigh) was ill of an incurable disease, and though he had no intention of returning, his thoughts were reaching out to England. His early career had been a disgrace, his marriage had proved a ghastly failure, and the least he could do was to cover it up, together with his own life, on the other side of the world. Gradually he had developed a strong sense of social and moral obligation that had made him hate himself when he remembered the advantages to which he had been born. Of what use had he been with his dissipated habits, he thought bitterly, or could he be now that he saw the folly of them, with his health permanently ruined, his wife vulgar and often drunken? If birth or accident had given such people the right to be counted as aristocracy, then, by every law of Heaven, and for the sake of those things that make for the salvation of the race, they ought to be stamped out. The letter came at breakfast-time. Mr. Vincent was still thinking it over when Hannah pushed back her chair with a grating noise along the tiled floor, and said in a rasping voice: "I shall be driving to Liphook this afternoon if anything is wanted." He hesitated on his way to the best parlor. "You might call at the post-office and ask when the Australian mail goes," he said. Mrs. Vincent and Margaret looked after him; then, as was their custom, they gathered up the breakfast things and carried them to the kitchen. Hannah was there already, searching round the shelves and cupboards as if she expected to come upon a hidden crime. "I've no time to iron those muslins to-day," she said; "you had better do them, Margaret. I never see why you shouldn't help with things. Mother and I have enough to do." "But of course I will; and I like ironing, especially in cold weather." "There isn't a curtain fit to put to a window, and my hands are full enough," Hannah went on, as if she had not heard. "Towsey will put down the irons. Till they are hot, perhaps you had better run out a bit," she added, impatiently; "you always make so much of the air. For my part, I find it better to look after one's work than after one's health; one brings the other is what I think."