Meanwhile the children themselves absorbed the most loving care of their parents. Mr. Cardew was, as has already been said, a great merchant-prince. He often went to London to attend to his business affairs, but he spent most of his time in the exquisite country home. It was quite true that discontent seemed far, very far away from so lovely a spot as Meredith Manor. Nevertheless, Mr. Cardew had seen it to-day on the face of his best-loved child, his little Merry. The look had hurt him; and while he was having lunch with her, and joking with her, and talking, in his usually bright and intelligent way, her words, and still more the expression of her face and the longing look in her sweet brown eyes, returned to him again and again. He was, therefore, more thoughtful than usual as he sat by his wife's side now under the elm-tree. He had a pile of newspapers and magazines on the grass at his feet, and his favorite fox-terrier Jim lay close to his master. Mrs. Cardew had her invariable knitting and a couple of novels waiting to occupy her attention when Mr. Cardew took up one of the newspapers. But for a time the pair were silent. Mrs. Cardew was thinking of something which she wanted to say, and Mr. Cardew was thinking of Merry. It was, as is invariably the case, the woman who first broke the silence. "Well, Cyril," said his wife, "to find ourselves seated here all alone, without the children's voices to listen to reminds me of the old times, the good times, the beautiful times when we were first married." "My dear," he answered, starting slightly as she spoke, "those were certainly good and beautiful times, but surely not more good and beautiful than now, when our two dear little girls are growing up and giving us such great happiness." "That is true. Please don't misunderstand me, love; but you come even before the children." He felt touched as she said this, and glancing at her, said to himself that he was indeed in luck to have secured so priceless a woman as his wife. "We have had happy times together, Cyril," she said, returning his glance. "Yes, Sylvia," he answered, and once again he thought of Merry's face. "Nothing can alter that," she continued. "Nothing, my love," he said. Then he looked at her again, and saw that she was a little troubled about something; and, as was his custom, he determined to take the bull by the horns. "You have something on your mind, Sylvia. What is it?" "I have," she said at once; "and something of very great importance. I have a sort of fear that to talk of it with you may possibly trouble you a little. Shall we defer it, dear? The day is so peaceful, and we are so happy." "No, no," he replied at once. "We will take the opportunity of the children being perfectly happy at the rectory to discuss the thing that worries you. But what can it be?" he continued. "That is more than I can imagine. I have never seen you worried before."