"Is that you, Helen?" "Yes." "Anything wrong?" "No, I'm just here with John," she said and went close to the cart. "And George is waiting for you." "He'd better hop up, then." He bent towards her. "Did you find the fires?" She nodded with the vehemence of her gladness that he should remember. "And," she whispered hurriedly, "you were quite right about the doors. Uncle Alfred's going to be a friend." "That's good. Hullo, Halkett. Get up, will you, and we'll go on. Where's John?" "Sitting on the bank." The cart shook under Halkett's added weight, and as he took his seat he bulked enormous in the darkness. Dwarfed by that nearness, the doctor sat with his hat in one hand and gathered the reins up with the other. "No, just a minute!" Helen cried. "I want to stroke the horse." Her voice had laughter in it. "There's a patient waiting for me, you know." "Yes. There! It's done. Go on. Good-night." The cart took the corner in a blur of lamplight and shadow, tipped over a large stone and disappeared down the high-banked lane, leaving Helen with an impressive, half-alarming memory of the two jolted figures, black, with white ovals for faces, side by side, and Zebedee's spare frame clearing itself, now and then, from the other's breadth. In the drawing-room, Uncle Alfred sat on one side of the hearth and Miriam on the other. The room was softly lighted by candles and the fire, and at the dimmer end Mr. Pinderwell's bride was smiling. The sound of Mildred Caniper's needle, as she worked at an embroidery frame, was added to the noises of the fire and Uncle Alfred's regular pulling at his pipe. Rupert was proving his capacity for silence on the piano stool. "And which country," Miriam asked, leaning towards her uncle, "do you like best?" "Oh--well, I hardly know." "I never care for the sound of Africa--so hot." "Hottish," conceded Uncle Alfred. "Oh, Lord!" Rupert groaned in spirit. "And South America, full of crocodiles, isn't it?" "Is it?" "Haven't you been there?" "Yes, yes--parts of it." "Miriam," said Mildred Caniper, "Alfred is not a geography book." "But he ought to be," she dared. "And," the cool voice went on, "you never cared for geography, I remember." Miriam sat back sullenly, stiffening until her prettily shod feet reached an inch further along the fender. Rupert would not relieve the situation and the visitor smoked on, watching Miriam through his tobacco smoke, until a knock came at the door. "I beg your pardon, M'm--" "It's Mother Samson," said Rupert. "Shall I look after her?" "No. I will go." The door closed quietly behind Mrs. Caniper. Uncle Alfred lowered his pipe. "You are extraordinarily like your mother," he said in quick and agitated tones, and the life of the room was changed amazingly. Rupert turned on his seat, and his elbow scraped the piano notes so that they jangled like a hundred questions. Miriam slipped out of her chair. "Am I?" she asked from her knees. "I knew I was. Tell me!"