"Darling Hiawatha! He came from home," whispered Virginia. She knelt by the window, her elbows on the sill and her curved chin resting on her hands, while her Greuze eyes rested on the row of little garden plots, on the farther row that abutted upon them, and on the backs of the houses beyond those. She was young, it was summer-time, and yet, and yet---- "Well," said Pansy, "did Gerald send me his love or anything?" Virginia started. Gerald at the moment filled her thoughts. She had missed him when he went away--went away without a word! She had not expected to miss him so much. Yet, with the lack of perception of her youth, she failed to connect her present formless dejection with the thought of his departure. Pulling herself together with a determined effort, she turned from the window, explained to Pansy the fact that Gerald had been obliged to rush off to Liverpool for his father, and thus had naturally not had time for any special message or present. "But I have got something for you, sweetums," she murmured caressingly. "You wait until the outside porter condescends to deliver my boxes! You only wait!" The colour flooded the cripple's transparent skin. "Oh, Virgie, Virgie, what is it? Tell me what it is!" "We'll make it a guessing game," replied Virgie. "I will just go and get on some old things, and we will play it properly. Where's Tony, by the way?" "Gone with the eleven to play Balchurch. Did you know they have made him twelfth man? He's awfully bucked," said Pansy, with satisfaction. "I don't expect he'll be back yet." "Oh! Pansy! but how splendid! He's very young, isn't he?" "Two years younger than the youngest man in the eleven," announced Pansy, with satisfaction. "I'm making him a tie in the school colours." She took up her knitting with pride. A sound in the hall below struck Virginia's ear. "There's mamma," she said; "I must go and greet her." Slipping out of the room, she descended the stairs, and entering the tiny drawing-room on the right of the entrance passage, stood face to face with Mrs. Mynors. It was hard to believe that these were mother and daughter; they looked more like sisters. The elder woman, in coquettish slight mourning, had the same face, broad at the brow, tapering at the chin, the same long lovely eyes, deep-lashed, the same poise of the head and wavy golden-brown hair. A close observer alone would mark differences. The elder woman's eyes were blue, like forget-me-nots--the hard blue that looks so soft, that never varies. Her daughter's were less easy to describe. They were changeful as the sea, responsive to varying skies; and just now, in the waning light, they seemed dark grey.