They romped through the larch wood, up the hill-side, and into the garden, Lynette’s two hands clasped over her father’s forehead. Fernhill House showed up against the evening sky, a warm, old, red-brick building with white window frames, roses and creepers covering it, and little dormer windows peeping out of the tiled roof. Stretches of fine turf were unfurled before it, set with beds of violas, and bounded by great herbaceous borders. A cedar of Lebanon grew to the east, a noble sequoia to the west, throwing sharp black shadows on the gold-green grass. “Gallop, daddy.” Canterton galloped, and her brilliant hair danced, and her red mouth laughed. They came across the grass to the house in fine uproarious style, and were greeted by the sound of voices drifting through the open windows of the drawing-room. Their irresponsible fun was at end. Canterton set the child down just as the thin primrose-coloured figure came to one of the open French windows. “James, Mrs. Brocklebank has come back with me. Where is Miss Vance?” Lynette replied for Miss Vance. “She had a headache, mother.” “I might have inferred something of the kind. Look at the front of your dress, Lynette.” “Yes, mother.” “What have you been doing? And you have got a great hole in your left stocking, over the knee.” “Yes, mother, so I have.” “Lynette, how often have I told you——” Mrs. Brocklebank or no Mrs. Brocklebank, Canterton interposed quietly in Lynette’s defence. “If it’s anybody’s fault it’s mine, Gertrude. Let the child be a child sometimes.” She turned on him impatiently, being only too conscious of the fact that Lynette was his child, and not hers. “How can you expect me to have any authority? And in the end the responsibility always rests with the woman.” “Perhaps—perhaps not. Run along, old lady. I’ll come and say good night presently.” Lynette walked off to the south door, having no desire to be kissed by Mrs. Brocklebank in the drawing-room. She turned and looked back once at her father with a demure yet inimitable twinkle of the eyes. Canterton was very much part of Lynette’s life. Her mother only dashed into it with spasmodic earnestness, and with eyes that were fussily critical. For though Gertrude Canterton always spoke of woman’s place being the home, she was so much busied with reforming other people’s homes, and setting all their social machinery in order, that she had very little leisure left for her own. A housekeeper managed the house by letting Mrs. Canterton think that she herself managed it. Miss Vance was almost wholly responsible for Lynette, and Gertrude Canterton’s periodic plunges into the domestic routine at Fernhill were like the surprise visits of an inspector of schools. “Mrs. Brocklebank is staying the night. We have some business to discuss with regard to the Children’s Home.”