"I wonder what Charlie chose Denys for," murmured Gertrude. "Really!" said Denys, flushing and rising, "this conversation is getting altogether too personal. Come, Maudie, it is your bedtime." She carried the child off, and Conway said a little pointedly-- "I wonder what anybody could choose Gertrude for." Gertrude coloured angrily and his mother said gently, "Conway, dear!" "Well!" said Willie's drawly voice again, "I should like to know what a girl looks for in a fellow. What should you expect, for instance, Gertrude?" One word rose involuntarily to Gertrude's lips, but she choked it back. "My dear Willie!" she said with her easy laugh. And that same word had risen to Conway's lips, but with a tremendous effort he too choked it back. Gertrude always aggravated him, and it was a daily fight with him to be civil to her. He rose abruptly and went into the garden, and in a few minutes the others drifted after him, and Mr. and Mrs. Brougham were left alone. "It is nice to see them all together like this," said Mrs. Brougham fondly, as she watched the moving figures in the garden. There was a smile in Mr. Brougham's eyes as he quoted-- "And the ancient arrow maker Turned again unto his labour, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying, That it is our daughters leave us." "We shan't have to part with little Maud--yet," answered Mrs. Brougham with a low laugh. There did not rise before her mental vision a picture of a vengeful woman cowering over a handful of red embers, her mind set on one object and one object only--some mode of vengeance. But even if she could have seen such a picture, how could she have formed a chain of association which should link that woman with the maid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-haired child upstairs, the patter of whose little feet sounded over her head? How the patter of those childish footsteps came back to her heart's memory on Monday night! "No," repeated Mr. Brougham thoughtfully, "not yet!" CHAPTER XVII. MEETING AND PARTING. Monday morning brought a letter for Gertrude in a distinctly masculine, but quite unfamiliar handwriting. Its very unfamiliarity made her let it lie unopened beside her plate while she began her breakfast. If anyone showed curiosity about her correspondent she could truthfully say she did not know who the letter was from, and she liked to amuse herself with wondering about it. Even the postmark was obliterated. She decided then that the rich American, who really was leaving for Switzerland at last, had written to say farewell and to tell her when he was likely to return for the final wind-up picnic he had promised to Old Keston. She did not guess that the mysterious writing was well known to Denys as that of one of Charlie Henchman's friends, and that she had said to herself as she carried it in from the post-box, "What is Cecil Greyburne writing to Gertrude for?"