'You're quite right, Mrs. Mumford. I'm sure you've been very kind to me, and I've had a very pleasant time here, but it wouldn't do for me to stay longer. May I wait over to-morrow, just till Wednesday morning, to have an answer to a letter?' 'Certainly, if it is quite understood that there will be no delay beyond that. There are circumstances--private matters--I don't feel quite able to explain. But I must be sure that you will have left us by Wednesday afternoon.' 'You may be sure of it. I will write a line and post it to-night, for it to go as soon as possible.' Therewith Louise stood up and, smiling, withdrew. Emmeline was both relieved and surprised; she had not thought it possible for the girl to conduct herself at such a juncture with such perfect propriety. An outbreak of ill-temper, perhaps of insolence, had seemed more than likely; at best she looked for tears and entreaties. Well, it was over, and by Wednesday the house would be restored to its ancient calm. Ancient, indeed! One could not believe that so short a time had passed since Miss Derrick first entered the portals. Only one more day. 'Oh, blindness to the future, kindly given, That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven.' At school, Emmeline had learnt and recited these lines; but it was long since they had recurred to her memory. In ten minutes Louise had written her letter. She went out, returned, and looked in at the drawing-room, with a pleasant smile. 'Good-night, Mrs. Mumford.' 'Good-night, Miss Derrick.' For the grace of the thing, Emmeline would have liked to say 'Louise,' but could not bring her lips to utter the name. About a year ago there had been a little misunderstanding between Mr. and Mrs. Mumford, which lasted for some twenty-four hours, during which they had nothing to say to each other. To-night they found themselves in a similar situation, and remembered that last difference, and wondered, both of them, at the harmony of their married life. It was in truth wonderful enough; twelve months without a shadow of ill-feeling between them. The reflection compelled Mumford to speak when his head was on the pillow. 'Emmy, we're making fools of ourselves. Just tell me what you have done.' 'I can't see how _I_ am guilty of foolishness,' was the clear-cut reply. 'Then why are you angry with me?' 'I don't like deceit.' 'Hanged if I don't dislike it just as much. When is that girl going?' Emmeline made known the understanding at which she had arrived, and her husband breathed an exclamation of profound thankfulness. But peace was not perfectly restored.