"It is a disgrace to us all to have your father seen in such a coat. Absolutely in tatters. Past all mending." "Everybody knows father, and nobody minds what he does." "That is precisely why his own people have to mind. Otherwise, there is no check upon him. Doris, those library books are not covered yet." "I didn't feel inclined yesterday." "The things that one doesn't feel inclined to do are generally just those that ought to come first." She spoke positively; not unkindly; but voice and manner jarred, and the girl moved in a restive fashion. "I want to cycle over to see Katherine." "You will hardly have time to-day." Mrs. Winton held out her hand, as the maid brought a note on a tray. Susan hesitated, with a glance towards Doris, but the gesture had to be obeyed. Doris in her turn held out a hand. "Mother—that is for me." "Yes. I see that it is from Hamilton Stirling." Doris flushed with vexation, and retreated to the bow-window. There she stood and read in leisurely style four pages of neat small handwriting. Getting to the end, she smiled, put the sheet into her pocket, and stood gazing out on the lawn. They were still in the study. Mrs. Winton waited two or three minutes, then said— "I think you should allow me to see your letter, my dear. You cannot have secrets of that sort from me." Doris faced round, her combative instincts awake. "What sort?" "I'm sure you understand what I mean." Doris seemed embarrassed, though a smile lingered round her lips, and her eyes had a sparkle in them. "It's—not meant to be shown." "If you will tell me what it is about, I can judge." The girl stood, slender and upright, against a dark maroon curtain. "He says I am not to tell anyone." "Mr. Hamilton Stirling would certainly make an exception in my case. He would not wish you to hide anything from me." "He says—nobody!" "Then I think he is wrong. And I do not think you are bound to follow such an injunction." Doris's head went up. "He advises me to read some books on geology." "That cannot be what he does not wish you to repeat." "No." "And at your age—" "I'm nineteen." "Doris, you force me to ask you a plain question. Has he made you an offer of marriage?" "Mother!" The girl crimsoned, and threw out her hands with a movement as of indignant repudiation. "Of course not! Why should he? It is absurd to ask such a thing. But you always spoil everything for me— always!" Mrs. Winton was vaguely conscious, as the Squire had been, of some new element. She failed to analyse it, and the line she took was unfortunate. A word of loving sympathy would have brought submission; but she straightened her shoulders, and remarked coldly— "That is not the way in which you ought to speak to me. Are you going to show me the letter?" Doris caught her breath, said—"I can't!"—and fled. CHAPTER IV The Morris's