Nan fretted and fumed, hated town restrictions, and above all things kicked fiercely against the wearing of gloves every time she set foot outside the front door. It was "like being in a prison," she wrathfully declared. But she had no support in the grumbling line from Wallace, who fell into the new manner of life with unlooked-for readiness, seeming to like it as well as the old. "Takes to London like a duck to water," grunted his father discontentedly. And Prudence! Everybody had expected Prue to suffer under the uprooting. Quiet Prue, retiring Prue, the good home-daughter Prue, how should it be otherwise with her? A good deal of pity was wasted upon Prue; and people found themselves a little out of their reckonings. Prue showed no sign of suffering, beyond a reasonable amount of sorrow in bidding farewell to the old home. When they reached London she was not depressed; nay, she showed herself the most alert of the whole party, the quickest to spy out pleasant points in their novel surroundings, the readiest to discover fresh interests, the most eager to settle down and change "house" into "home." "London seems to suit you, my girl, anyway," the old father sometimes observed, not quite approvingly. Prue had not for years worn so young and cheery a look. When it was remarked upon, she smiled, and even blushed a little. Mrs. Valentine understood, and she alone. Others of the family knew that, on finding this new home, they had dropped—oddly, because without intention—into the Parish of a former acquaintance; and some of them remarked on the "curiousness" of so doing. "Rev. Robert Kelly—yes, I remember him. Not a bad fellow. Dare say we shall like his sermons," Mr. Valentine said carelessly. But Bertha was far-away, nursing a long and severe "case," while Nan and Wallace barely recollected the name of "Kelly." It had not been a prominent factor in their lives. Only Mrs. Valentine divined what this resuscitation of an old friendship might mean to her eldest daughter. She was sorry for it. Prue had seemed uniformly happy of late years. Would it mean the former trouble over again—Prue caring too much, hoping too much, only to be disappointed. "Such a pity," mused the old lady. "And Prue remembers him still, I know. She has never really forgotten." If it did not mean disappointment to Prue, it might mean to Mrs. Valentine the loss of her daughter. That she could bear, for her child's sake; so that only it might mean Prue's happiness. Yet what if, for Prue, the best thing which could happen should be the denial of earthly happiness? Or what if that which seemed to promise happiness should mean life-long sorrow?