Waveney struggled with a smile, but she had not quite recovered herself, so she said, rather coldly,-- "I don't see that my forgiveness matters a bit!" "Is not that rather crushing?" he returned. "Especially as it matters very much to me. I wish you would be friendly enough to tell me the real cause of offence. You could not reasonably expect that I should let you swim through this"--the rain beating an accompaniment to his words. "I would not have let my sister do it"--his voice softening into involuntary tenderness. Never had she seemed so lovable to him, even though her childish waywardness was making him smile. "It was not the cab I minded so much," stammered Waveney, tingling with shame and confusion to her finger-ends, and glad of the darkness that hid her hot cheeks; "only you did it without telling me"--Waveney did not dare say what she really thought: that he had managed her like a child--"and it makes me unhappy, it does indeed, Mr. Chaytor, to bring you out this dreadful night, when you are so tired and have been hard at work all day." "I never felt less tired in my life! And you are giving me great pleasure, in allowing me to perform this little service for you." Then Waveney blushed again, but this time for pleasure, for Mr. Chaytor's voice convinced her that he was speaking the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. "Now we have had our first and last little difference," he went on, cheerfully, "and shall be better friends than ever." And there was no outward dissent to this; only a mutinous sparkle in Waveney's dark eyes showed a silent protest. "Would it be their last difference?" she thought; for she was a shrewd, sensible little woman, and had her own opinions on most things; but at least she had the grace and honesty to own that on this occasion she had been in the wrong. What a short drive it was, after all! Almost before Waveney had seen that they were at the top of the hill they were driving through the lodge gates. Althea came out into the hall to meet them in her heliotrope velveteen and lace ruff. She looked more like Queen Bess than ever. "My dear child, I have been so anxious about you! But of course I hoped you had taken shelter. Thank you for bringing her home, Thorold. Will you come in, or is your cab waiting? We have our usual mulled wine and Christmas cake, which you ought to taste for the sake of the old lang syne." "May I give the cabman some? Poor old fellow, he is so cold!" But it was a mere form of words. He need not have asked the question. On Christmas Eve not an errand boy or a carol singer left the Red House without being regaled with Christmas fare--"cakes and ale," as Althea and Doreen called it.