"I am sure I wish Conrad had never left her with me," she mused; "and yet there seemed no other solution of the difficulty when the regiment was ordered out to Simla. It was impossible, of course, to take her with him, and poor Helen was so opposed to boarding-schools. But it has certainly been a mistake having her here. Such an unruly, passionate nature as Monica’s needs very careful handling, and not one of these governesses has had the tact to manage her. I’m sure I don’t know what to do about her." Mrs. Beauchamp’s ruminations were cut short by the abrupt entrance of a girl of fifteen, tall, and with a haughty mien, but possessing a face which denoted much character, albeit it wore an unpleasant scowl at the present moment. Pushing the door to behind her with no gentle hand, so that it slammed violently, causing a jingling among the pretty knick-knacks with which the handsome drawing-room was lavishly ornamented, Monica Beauchamp stood before her grandmother, like a young lioness at bay. "Barnes told me that you had sent for me, grand-mamma." With a visible shudder at the noise made by the slamming door, Mrs. Beauchamp sat erect, and spoke with much annoyance, as she gave the delinquent an aggrieved look over her gold-rimmed pince-nez. "Really, Monica----" she began, in severe tones, but she was interrupted. "Sorry," exclaimed her granddaughter, nonchalantly. "I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but doors always seem to slip out of my fingers. What did you want me for, grandmamma? Would you mind being quick, because I’m in a great hurry?" Even insubordinate Monica quailed before the expressions which flitted across the old lady’s features--amazement, anger, and finally scorn. "I am simply _astounded_ at your rudeness, Monica," she said, sternly. "How you can possibly allow yourself to speak to me in such a manner, I cannot imagine. It is very evident that you are no Beauchamp." The scorn expressed in her grandmother’s tones acted in the same way as a touch of the whip about the ears of a thoroughbred mare. She started, and tears of wounded pride welled up in her flashing hazel eyes, but they were quickly forced back. "I _am_ a Beauchamp!" she cried, her lips quivering with anger, and her head thrown back. "Every one says I am my father over again." "So you may be, in looks, Monica, but he would never have dreamed of addressing me in the manner you did just now." "Well, perhaps he wasn’t aggravated like I am. Miss Thompson is enough to provoke a saint," she added, _sotto voce_, with a furtive glance at the old lady’s face. But Mrs. Beauchamp took no notice of it; indeed, it is doubtful if she heard the remark, so engrossed was she in deciding how best to deliver the lecture she had undertaken to give Monica. A startled exclamation from her grandchild, who had been moodily staring out of one of the French windows, which overlooked a large sweep of the carriage drive, effectually roused her.