Eight years ago Matthew Everard had brought her home after a brief visit to London. He had handed her over to eighteen-year-old Constance. “Look after the little one, Connie,” he had said. “There’s not a soul in the world who wants her, poor little lass. Her father’s been dead years; her mother died—last week.” He paused. “I knew them both.” That was all the information he had ever given, so Ellice Brand had come to Buddesby, one more mouth to feed, one more pair of feet to find shoes for. She had many faults; she was passionate and wilful, defiant and impatient of even Connie’s gentle authority. But there was one who could quell her most violent outburst with a word—one who had but to look at her to bring her to her sane senses, one whom she would, dog-like, have followed to the end of the world, from whom she would have accepted blows and kicks and curses without a murmur, only that Johnny Everard was not in the habit of bestowing blows and curses on young ladies. Constance was twenty-six, John, the master of Buddesby, was a year younger, and Ellice was eighteen, her slender body as yet childish and unformed, her gipsy-like face a little too thin. But there was beauty there, wonderful and startling beauty that would one day blossom forth. It was in the bud as yet, but the bud was near to opening. They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at Buddesby. It was eight o’clock, and John had been afield for a couple of hours and had come back with his appetite sharp set. They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely duties since soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing of the breakfast-bell. “A letter from Helen,” Constance said. “Helen? Oh, she’s got to Starden then?” said John. “And wants us to come over, dear.” “Of course! We’ll go over next week some time. I’m busy now with—” “It wouldn’t be kind not to go at once.” “Who is Helen?” demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and then at John. “Who is she?” A tinge of colour came into her cheeks. Connie saw it, and sighed a little. She knew this girl’s secret, knew it only too well. Many an hour of anxiety and worry it had caused her. “Helen is our aunt by marriage,” she said. “Oh!” Ellice said, “I thought—” John laughed. He had a jolly laugh, a great hearty laugh that did one good to hear. “What did you think she was, gipsy girl?” he asked, for “gipsy” was his pet name for the little dark beauty. “Did you think she was some young and lovely damsel who was eager to meet me again?” “I should hate her if she was!” the girl said, whereat John laughed again. “Write to Helen, Con,” he said as he rose from the table, “and say we’ll come over to-morrow.” He paused, frowning, at thought. “I’ll manage it somehow. I’ll drive you over in the trap. It would be useful to have a car; I don’t know why I put off getting one.” Constance did, and she smiled. “Wait till next year, dear.”