She bestowed no thought on the suffering parent she had been unable to leave, nor had she visited her all the morning. The atmosphere of Mrs. Trelane’s room, where scents fought with the smell of menthol, had no charms for her daughter. The only pause she made was in the empty dining-room, where the table was laid for lunch. The silver epergne was piled with forced peaches and hothouse grapes, a bread-tray full of crisp dinner rolls adorned the sideboard among a multitude of cold meats. Miss Trelane stuffed two peaches into her pocket, inserted some cold chicken that was ready cut between the halves of two rolls, calmly wrapped up her spoils in a napkin, tucked them into her muff, and departed unnoticed. “Wonderfully convenient, living like this,” she reflected, with a sweet little grin. “Otherwise, Mr. Cylmer might have caused me to go forth hungry.” CHAPTER X. A KISS. Ismay went out into the clear, soft sunlight, treading lightly in her smart, thick boots, with joy in her heart. Things had played into her hands at last. Toward half-past two o’clock, warm and lovely with her quick walk, she stood at Miles Cylmer’s gates. They were heavy iron, hung from carved stone posts, “Cylmer’s Ferry” cut deeply on them. She saw the significance of the name, for a hundred yards in front of her a narrow river ran sluggishly, cutting through Cylmer’s property for miles. There was a high ivy-covered wall on both sides of the road, and the view, except of the river, was limited. Miss Trelane glanced up and down. “Very considerate of Mr. Cylmer to have no lodge,” she observed aloud. “A lodge-keeper and six children would have embarrassed me very much.” She marched deliberately to the ivy-covered wall opposite the gate, and swung herself up with the ease of long practise over Mrs. Barlow’s wall at school. She had come up-hill all the way from Marchant’s Hold, and now from the top of the six-foot wall the country lay before her like a map. She seated herself comfortably, and began with a capital appetite on her lunch. As she took the peaches from her pocket she gave a little nod of satisfaction. Far off down in the valley she could see the hounds being taken home. There would be no late waiting for Mr. Cylmer, since there had evidently been no sport to speak of. The peaches had rubbed against her pocket and stained its smart green lining. “Bother!” said the girl, with the thriftiness of poverty. She turned the pocket inside out to dry. “But the peaches are all right,” she added, as she finished them and wiped her fingers on the fine damask napkin which she neatly bestowed down a convenient hole in the wall. There were plenty more at Marchant Hold, and it was greasy.