Tom’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, I gathered that on Tuesday. I am glad you let her go, Aunt Lucy. But there is no need for her to stay till June if she does not like it, is there? Why should she go back at all?” “I don’t think it would be quite fair to Miss Smythe for her to leave her now, dear,” said Miss Merivale gently. “I am sure Rose would rather go back.” Their talk was interrupted by Rose herself, who came flying across the hall at the sight of Tom, followed more slowly by Pauline. “Oh, Tom, have you come back? I drove Bob from the station. Did Aunt Lucy tell you?” “She hasn’t had time. I have only just come in. How do you do, Miss Smythe? I hope Rose has been a good little girl since Tuesday?” “Have you, Rose?” said Pauline, with a lazy smile. Rose did not hear the question. She had caught sight of Rhoda entering the hall through the swing doors that led to Wilmot’s pantry, and she stepped back to speak to her. They stood talking together by the wide stone hearth, filled now with green fir boughs. Pauline noticed how Tom’s eyes kept wandering to them as he made disjointed remarks to her and his aunt, and he presently moved across the hall to join them. Miss Merivale got up from her seat in the porch. “It is getting chilly, my dear,” she said to Pauline. “Shall we go into the dining-room? Tea will be ready in a few moments.” But Pauline lingered in the hall. Though the twilight had begun to gather, enough light streamed through the great west window to make the portraits on the wainscoted walls clearly visible. Pauline went from one to the other, asking Miss Merivale a question now and then, but really far more intent on studying the group at the fireplace than the pictures she appeared to be interested in. Over the fireplace hung the portrait of Miss Merivale’s mother, a sweet, gentle-eyed woman, very much like Miss Merivale, except that her eyes were a soft brown instead of a soft blue. Pauline remarked on the likeness at once. “Except for the dark eyes, it might be your portrait, Miss Merivale.” Rose had been glancing from the portrait to Rhoda. “Aunt Lucy, your mother’s eyes are exactly the same colour as Miss Sampson’s.” Pauline, who was standing by Miss Merivale, felt her start violently. “I had not noticed, dear,” she said, without looking at Rhoda. “Oh, but they are,” Rose went on. “Only Miss Sampson’s are shaped a little differently. And she was named Rhoda, wasn’t she, Aunt Lucy? Tom, don’t you see the likeness?” “I can’t say I do, Rosie,” said Tom, who considered in his heart of hearts that Rhoda’s long-lashed, sparkling dark eyes were far more beautiful than the mild brown ones in the portrait. As he spoke he moved quickly towards his aunt. “Aunt Lucy, it is too cold for you here. Come in by the dining-room fire. Why, you are trembling with the cold. The evening is very chilly for April.”