Then, as Austin's long legs outwalked her, she called out: "All right, then. You need not think I am going to run by your side. You're much more disagreeable than when you went away." Austin looked back, and raised his cap. "I prefer sugar to vinegar. You won't keep any friends with that tongue of yours." And Jockie walked home humbly, for she felt the truth of his words. Austin had a warm welcome from his parents. His mother corroborated much of what Jockie had told him, but her plain dignified statements had more effect upon him than Jockie's bitterness. Early the next morning he went down to The Anchorage to see Sidney. It cost him some effort, but he knew that he must meet Mrs. Urquhart soon, and wanted the first plunge to be over. He came across her in the garden giving directions to the gardeners. She was looking as sweet as ever, and greeted him with perfect ease. "So glad to see you back. Your father has been wanting you badly. What do you think of the sunny East?" "Oh, tolerable! Is Sidney in? I'm awfully upset over the Admiral's death, and came down to see her." "Poor girl! She is wonderful. It has been so sad, for they both intended this London visit to be one of keen enjoyment. We little thought—" "I have heard about it," said Austin abruptly. "Excuse me going in. This place has always been like a second home to me, and I'm bewildered at all these changes." He heaved a sigh of relief as he got past her. "Thank goodness that's over! Jockie was quite right. I did make a fool of myself." He noticed at once the changes in the house; but when he was shown into the morning-room, and Sidney held out both hands with a bright smile of welcome, he almost broke down. "Oh, Sid! My little chum! What can I say? How we shall miss him!" Sidney's eyes filled with sudden tears. "That's good to hear, Austin! He was very fond of you." "Can you speak about it? Would you rather not?" "I should love to tell you all about him, but I expect you have heard." "Not details. I want them." So, in a soft steady voice Sidney went over those last precious days, which would always be beloved in her memory. Austin had been so truly fond of her father, that his sympathy was more to her than that shown by others. And then he drew her on to talk of herself and her own plans. He was aghast when she told him of her altered circumstances. "I shall have enough to live on," she told him; "but, of course, father's pension is gone, and the house with all its contents seems to belong to Uncle Ted. He has promised to furnish a small cottage for me from any bits that I like to pick out. Ethel suggests my going to Lovelace's Cottage, which is still unlet; but I can't bring myself to do that. It is a matter of pride, I am afraid." "But you don't mean that they're going to turn you out?"