took his child from school without the shadow of an excuse to her, and was now making other arrangements for her without so much as asking how she would like them. He did not greatly care. If it suited him it must suit her; and, as the first step toward the accomplishment of his object, he removed from Beechwood the great trial of his life, and put it where it could not trouble him, and turned a deaf ear to its entreaties to be taken back to “home” and “Allie” and the “crib” its poor arms had rocked so many weary nights. He knew the people with whom he left his charge were kind and considerate. He had tested them in that respect; he paid them largely for what they did. “Laura” was better there than at Beechwood, he believed; at all events he wanted her out of his way for a time, and so he had unclasped her clinging arms from his neck and kissed her flushed, tear-stained face, and put her from him, and locked the door upon her, and gone his way, thinking that when he served himself he was doing the best thing which Arthur Grey could do. He was coming home the night after Alice’s arrival, and the carriage went down to the station to meet him. There was a haze in the sky, and the moon was not as bright as on the previous night, when Allie rode up the mountain side; but it was very pleasant and cool, and Mr. Grey enjoyed his ride, and thought how well he had managed everything, and was glad he had been so kind and gentle with Laura, and sent her that basket of fruit, and that pretty little _cradle_, which he found in New York; and then he thought of Alice, and his heart gave a throb of pleasure when he saw the gleam of her white dress through the moonlight as she came out to meet him. There was a questioning look in her eyes,—a grieved, sorry kind of expression,—which he saw as he led her into the hall, and he kissed her very tenderly, and, smoothing her chestnut hair, said in reply to that look: “I knew you would hate to leave school, Allie; but I am going to take you to Europe.” “To Europe? Oh, father!” And Alice gave a scream of joy. A trip to Europe had been her dream of perfect happiness, and now that the dream was to be fulfilled, it seemed too good to be true. “Oh, auntie!” she cried, running up to that stately lady, who, in her iron-gray puffs and black satin of the previous night, was coming slowly to meet her brother,—“Auntie, we are going to Europe, all of us! Isn’t it splendid?”