She had not expected this. The Rectorinn was far from demonstrative; and while Doris had braced herself to meet displeasure, the last thing she had expected was tenderness. For a moment neither spoke. Doris's head went down on her mother's shoulder; and she nestled into the welcoming grasp, feeling herself to be a child again,— or like a little bird, returning from a long wander into the warmth and shelter of the nest. Could Mrs. Winton have realised it, she might at any time have controlled this daughter of hers by the slightest of silken threads. Stern opposition, severe management, always stiffened the young back; but Doris would succumb at once to the touch of love and gentleness. Those clasping arms meant to her what she had known, but often had not realised, the strength of mother-love! She knew that the firm grip meant more than love. She read in it guardianship, exclusion, disapproval,—all these. But the tenderness made up for everything, made all of small importance by comparison; and she gave herself over to it, clinging fast—was it for protection from herself? She could not have told. Neither saw the tears which glistened in another pair of eyes, under shaggy brows. "Are you tired with your journey?" "Not in the least, mother," She stood up, and adjusted her hat. "How nice it all looks! So pretty and homelike! Why—you have put fresh flowers in all the vases. It's not the day." "For you!" Mrs. Winton's face said. "And the best china out!" She appreciated that honour. "And those little cakes that I like. And what is this?" She stopped before a small table, on which lay sundry packages, addressed to herself. "Tea first," suggested Mr. Winton. "I'm longing to open them. Well—I'll wait." She sat down, and her parents watched her with hardly-veiled anxiety and admiration. She had never looked fresher, prettier, more charming. Mrs. Winton was thinking how, at this phase, she would doubly attract Hamilton Stirling. The other undesirable young fellow had of course to be got rid of as fast as possible. She did not foresee grave difficulty, but she did recognise a need for tact; and though not commonly a tactful person, she was cautious now through fear of consequences. Doris, as she well knew, could be roused to obstinacy. "No end of invitations," Mrs. Winton said. She ran through a list of forthcoming garden-parties in the neighbourhood; titled names included. She was much too sure of her own position to care for any bolstering up by acquaintances. She would have said that she left "that sort of thing" to "people like Mrs. Brutt." But to-day she was desirous to get Doris back into the old atmosphere; so, with a purpose, important names figured prominently.