“Connection all round. Phyllis Merrifield married his brother, banking in Ceylon, and may come home any day on a visit; and Ivinghoe’s pretty wife is Lancelot’s niece. He edits what is really the crack newspaper of the county, in spite of its being true blue Conservative, Church and all.” “The _Pursuivant_? It has such good literary articles.” “Oh, yes! Mrs. Grinstead and Canon Harewood write them. His wife is a daughter of old Dr. May—rather a peculiar person, but very jolly in her way.” “But would they like to have Agatha imposed upon them?” “Certainly; they are just the people to like nothing better, and it will only be for a fortnight. I have settled it all with them.” At which Magdalen looked a little doubtful, but Dolores reiterated that there need be no scruple, she might ask Aunt Lily if she liked; but Lance Underwood was Mayor, and member of all the committees, and the most open-hearted man in the world besides, and it was all right. To the further demur as to safety, Dolores answered that to light a candle or sit by the fire might be dangerous, but as long as people were careful, it was all right, and Agatha had already assisted in some experiments at Rock Quay, which had shown her to be thoroughly understanding and trustworthy, and capable of keeping off the amateur—the great bugbear. So Magdalen consented, after rapturous desires on the part of Agatha, and assurances from General Mohun that Dolores had it in her by inheritance and by training to meddle with the lightning as safely as human being might; and Lady Merrifield owned with a sigh that she must accept as a fact that what even the heathens owned as a Divine mystery and awful attribute, had come to be treated as a commonplace business messenger and scientific toy, though (as Mrs. Gatty puts it) the mystery had only gone deeper. So much for the peril; and for the other scruple, it was set at rest by a hospitable letter from Mrs. Underwood, heartily inviting Miss Agatha Prescott, as an Oxford friend of Gillian. So off the two electricians set, and after two days of business and sight-seeing in London, went down to Bexley. In the third-class carriage in which they travelled they were struck by the sight of a tall lady in mourning—a sort of compromise between a conventual and a secular bonnet over short fair hair, and holding on her lap a tiny little girl of about six years old, with a small, pinched, delicate face and slightly red hair, to whom she pointed out by name each spot they passed, herself wearing an earnest absorbed look of recognition as she pointed out familiar landmark after landmark till the darkness came down. Also there were two cages—one with a small pink cockatoo, and another with two budgerigars. As the train began slackening Dolores exclaimed: “There he is! Lance—!” “Lance! Oh, Lance!” was echoed; and setting the child down, her companion almost fell across Agatha, and was at the window as the train stopped.