She went up to bed and lay awake half the night, and, rising late next morning in consequence, took advantage of her daughter’s absence to peer under the bed. The parcels had disappeared. She went downstairs, with her faded but alert old eyes watching Cecilia’s every movement. “When does Mr. Truefitt begin his holidays?” she inquired, at last. Miss Willett, who had been glancing restlessly at the clock, started violently. “To—to—to-day,” she gasped. Mrs. Willett said “Oh!” “I—I was going out with him at eleven—for a little walk,” said her daughter, nervously. “Just a stroll.” Mrs. Willett nodded. “Do you good,” she said, slowly. “What are you going to wear?” Her daughter, still trembling, looked at her in surprise. “This,” she said, touching her plain brown dress. Mrs. Willett’s voice began to tremble. “It’s—it’s rather plain,” she said. “I like my daughter to be nicely dressed, especially when she is going out with her future husband. Go upstairs and put on your light green.” Miss Willett, paler than ever, gave a hasty and calculating glance at the clock and disappeared. “And your new hat,” Mrs. Willett called after her. She looked at the clock too, and then, almost as excited as her daughter, began to move restlessly about the room. Her hands shook, and going up to the glass over the mantel-piece she removed her spectacles and dabbed indignantly at her eyes. By the time Cecilia returned she was sitting in her favourite chair, a picture of placid and indifferent old age. “That’s better,” she said, with an approving nod; “much better.” She rose, and going up to her daughter rearranged her dress a little. “You look very nice, dear,” she said, with a little cough. “Mr. Truefitt ought to be proud of you. Good-by.” Her daughter kissed her, and then, having got as far as the door, came back and kissed her again. She made a second attempt to depart, and then, conscience proving too much for her, uttered a stifled sob and came back to her mother. “Oh, I can’t,” she wailed; “I can’t.” “You’ll be late,” said her mother, pushing her away. “Good-by.” “I can’t,” sobbed Miss Willett; “I can’t do it. I’m—I’m deceiving——” “Yes, yes,” said the old lady, hastily; “tell me another time. Good-by.” She half led and half thrust her daughter to the door. “But,” said the conscience-stricken Cecilia, “you don’t under—” “A walk will do you good,” said her mother; “and don’t cry; try and look your best.” She managed to close the door on her, and her countenance cleared as she heard her daughter open the hall door and pass out. Standing well back in the room, she watched her to the gate, uttering a sharp exclamation of annoyance as Cecilia, with a woebegone shake of the head, turned and came up the path again. A loud tap at the window and a shake of the head were necessary to drive her off.