Val had a glimpse of her the next morning, when Mrs. Gano made her final cold-weather "flitting" from the blue room up-stairs to the long room down-stairs. But it was Emmie and the servants who assisted. The removal was in the act of being finished when Val appeared on the scene. No notice was taken of her. She went out and walked about the garden. Returning to the house a little later, she met Emmie coming down the steps of the porch with a letter. "Where are you going?" "To the post-office, and grandma doesn't want to be disturbed." "Then you'd better go stand guard at the door." "Oh, she can lock the door." "I'm going to the post-office; I can take the letter." "No." "Give it to me, I say." "I won't!" "I saw the address; it shall never go." "Grandma!" Emmie called, with all her might, holding the letter to her breast and backing up the steps. "Grandma!" "How the old scenes of childhood repeat themselves," thought Val. "I've been 'going for her,' and she's been shouting 'Grandma!' ever since we came here as little girls." "_Grandma!_" Emmie was still calling, and the long room door opened. "I want to speak to you," said Val to her grandmother. "Val won't let me take your letter--" "Go this instant and do as I told you," said Mrs. Gano to Emmie. Val barred the front door. "I must speak to you, grandmamma, before that letter goes out of the house." "Let me go, I say." Emmie struggled to get by. Val stood firm. "How dare you--" Mrs. Gano began. "I dare for a very good reason, and I'll tell you what it is if you'll take the letter and let me speak to you alone." They stood looking at each other for a moment over Emmie's shoulder. Then Mrs. Gano caught the letter out of Emmie's hand and went back into her room. Val noticed how feebly she walked, followed, and quickly shut and locked the door. "Open that door," said her grandmother. "I want to speak to you alone." "Open my door." Val did so. "Open it wide." She obeyed. "Emmeline, go away, and don't come back till I call you. Now," she resumed, as Emmie's footsteps died away, "let us understand--Who is mistress in this house?" "You are." "Very well, then." "But you are not _my_ mistress." "What do you mean by that?" "I mean there are some things I must decide for myself." "I've ceased to trouble myself for the moment about _your_ decisions." "That letter of yours to Ethan is to take something that concerns me more than anybody here--to take it out of my hands." "If you can't manage your own concerns with propriety, your family must help you." "No, I won't be helped." They looked at each other. "I must make my own mistakes. It's I who have to live with them; I've a right to choose which they shall be." "As your natural guardian, it is well within my province to write to my grandson about your unheard-of conduct." "No." "Oh," she laughed derisively, "then, maybe, you will at least permit me to write and ask that my property be returned to me." "Your ring?"