“But it’s so unlike you to think of damp Parks and bare trees.” “Well—perhaps it’s because Millie’s coming back from Paris this afternoon. I shall be terrified of her—so smart she’ll be!” “Give her my love and bring her here as soon as she’ll come. She’ll amuse Roddy.” She paused, searching in Katherine’s brown eyes—“Katie—if there’s ever—anything—_any_thing—I can help you in or advise you—or do for you. You know, don’t you?... You always _will_ be so independent. You don’t _tell_ me things. Remember I’ve had my times—worse times than you guess.” Katherine kissed her. “It’s all right, Rachel, there’s nothing the matter—except that ... no, nothing at all. Good-bye, dear. Don’t come down. I’ll bring Millie over.” She was gone—Rachel watched her demure, careful progress until she was caught and hidden by the trees. * * * * * There had been a little truth in her words when she told Rachel that she dreaded Millie’s arrival. If she had ever, in the regular routine of her happy and busy life, looked forward to any event as dramatic or a crisis, that moment had always been Millie’s return from Paris. Millie had been happy and affectionate at home, but nevertheless a critic. She had never quite seen Life from inside the Trenchard Mirror nor had she quite seen it from the vision of family affection. She loved them all—but she found them slow, unadventurous, behind the times. That was the awful thing—‘behind the times’—a terrible accusation. If Millie had felt that (two years ago) how vehemently would she feel it now!... and Katherine knew that as she considered this criticism of Millie’s she was angry and indignant and warm with an urgent, passionate desire to protect her mother from any criticism whatever. “Behind the times”, indeed—Millie had better not.... And then she remembered the depth of her love for Millie ... nothing should interfere with that. She was in her bedroom, after luncheon, considering these things when there was a tap on the door and Aunt Betty entered. In her peep round the door to see whether she might come in, in the friendly, hopeful, reassuring butterfly of a smile that hovered about her lips, in the little stir of her clothes as she moved as though every article of attire was assuring her that it was still there, and was very happy to be there too, there was the whole of her history written.