Mrs. Keith's mind was occupied with other matters than scientific causes for everyday phenomena, as she paced the room with impatient steps, glancing in turn through each front window, in quest of the expected dog-cart. She was a handsome woman, tall, with dark eyes of unusual size. The rich brown hair, which held many silver threads, was well-dressed, and she carried herself with a touch of conscious stateliness, which failed to hide her present restless mood. A fixed red spot on either cheek made the rest of her pale face paler; her lips worked; and she continuously clenched and unclenched her right hand. Giles Randolph had risen when she rose, and he now stood in the oriel window, reading; a man of large build, six feet in height and robust in make. The face had strong outlines, with a straight solid nose, a good mouth under the heavy brown moustache, sombre blue eyes dragged downward at their outer corners, and a complexion of deep red-brown. In the features was something not easy to decipher. There was fibre of character, and a will to crush difficulty; yet that dim inscription seemed to speak of something in the past that had mastered him, and had given a bias to his life. "Half-past six! He ought to be here. I can't think why he is not," Mrs. Keith was saying. "The train was due half-an-hour ago." She took another turn. "He must have missed it. How vexatious! When does the next come in? I do wish you would look it out for me." Giles put down his book and walked to a side-table, where some fumbling ended in the remark—"I don't see Bradshaw." "It's there, I know—on the top shelf of that bookcase." He took down the volume, remarking in his deep voice, which contrasted with her somewhat querulous tones—"This train is often late." "O don't be sensible, pray! I'm not in the mood for it." Possibly her companion was at a loss how to be the reverse. He turned over the pages, and remarked, "In case Colin should have missed—" "Yes, yes; I understand all that. The time of the train is what I want." Then came an apology. "I really don't mean to be cross, Giles. Somehow, I can't help it." He looked at her kindly. "Of course—I understand. One knows what this must be to you—your own boy coming home!" "Yes. That is—he may be different." "No fear. Colin will be Colin still. Ah! Here is the page." She had moved again and now stood behind him. A breeze of feeling swept over her face; something of protestation, for which nothing present seemed to account. Tears filled her eyes and were with difficulty blinked away; but she spoke in a tone of forced gaiety. "You have no business to talk like that. To speak as if Colin were more to me than yourself. You know that you both are my boys—always have been and always will be." He spoke soothingly. "At all events, if there has been any difference it has lain the other way—more indulgence for me, more strictness for him."