Margaret had smiled when she had first read the above. Mrs. Crane's evident anxiety about her had seemed quite unnecessary at the moment; but now, in the light of her loss, she wondered if her old friends could possibly have heard anything disquieting about Oaklands. "I won't answer that letter just yet," she murmured to herself. "What _would_ they think if they knew? But oh, how I wish I could ask their advice!" She walked on unheeding the glory of the trees flushed with harlequin tints, and the rare sweetness of the fresh, hill-cooled breeze which swept over the common, dying into stillness and warmth as she entered the shelter of the woods. She presently sat down by the old oak, and, opening the book she had brought with her, tried to lose herself in the troubles of the heroine of _Stepping Heavenwards_, where the daily round and common task is so naturally described by an author who realised how truly these things furnish all we need to provide a battleground for those of us fighting the fight of faith, on our way towards home. A rustle in the brushwood near presently roused Margaret's attention, and to her utter surprise Bob's face peered through the wooded density, and in another moment he had pushed his way into the open and flung himself at Margaret's feet. "_You_, Bob!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "Why--where do you come from? This is only Friday--you are not due until to-morrow." There was no answer. The boy had thrown himself face downward upon the mossy turf, and buried his face in his hands. Margaret waited for a little, then, realising this meant something of moment to the boy, said gently: "Bob, what _is_ it? What has happened? Won't you tell me?" A sound like a smothered groan fell from the boy's lips, then, bending her head, she caught the words: "Miss Woodford--I'm--I'm in trouble." "Yes, I guessed so. Can't I help you?" she added, the rare sympathy of her voice reaching his ear. The boy rolled over, and sat up, and something she saw in his face filled her with a nameless anxiety. "Tell me all about it. I---I shall understand," she said kindly. "However bad it is, don't be afraid." Her tones and manner seemed to give the boy confidence. "Miss Woodford, I'm often in trouble, as you know," he said, a little bitterly. "I can stand a licking all right, but--but my father never seems to think--to think I try. He never believes in me; he's told me I'm a rotter so--often. He's fond of Ellice--but sometimes I think he _hates_ me----" "Oh, no--no, don't say or think that for a moment," broke in Margaret, a great pity tugging at her heart. "He doesn't quite understand, that is all. You must go on trying, Bob, however hard it is. You will win his regard yet--I am sure--sure." There was a pause, and then the boy continued, almost as if she had not spoken: