It was some weeks later that Dr. Hatherley noticed another announcement in his morning paper which brought a fervent "Thank God!" to his lips as he read it. It was headed: "AN OLD SOCIETY CRIME RECALLED "Through her lawyers the late Lucille Medhurst wishes it to be known that she alone was responsible for the loss of Miss Vandevor's necklace ten years ago; her husband, who suffered the full penalty of the law, was wholly innocent. Her full confession is in our hands." "I always knew he was innocent," said his friend, laying the paper down with a sigh of relief. CHAPTER XII HAPPINESS The tragedy of Mrs. Medhurst's death had wrought many changes. Ellice had been sent away to a boarding-school at Margaret's suggestion, and she herself had gone to live with Mrs. Crane as companion--but, as that lady put it in her letter, "more as a daughter of the house than a dependent, dear--the daughter I have always wanted to take care of us in our old age." Mr. Medhurst went abroad for a few years, and then something new and unexpected happened which changed the lives of all the inmates of Oaklands. Under the old oak tree a girl sat, her head buried in her hands in an abandonment of grief: it was Ellice Medhurst, no longer the little child who had in earlier years fled to the woods to soothe her childish griefs, but a tall girl of fifteen, merging into womanhood. Near her stood a young man looking down upon her with rather a puzzled countenance, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead. "I don't see what's the use of making a fuss, Ellice," he remarked. "Because it won't be anything to you--you will be off to college directly," she answered, "and I shall be left with her. I won't bear it, Bob--I can't. I know I shall hate her--and father will--will never think of me--now," she ended with a sob. "Look here, Sis," said her brother, after a slight pause, "I think it's mean of you to take up this attitude. Here's father coming home to-day, and because he's chosen to marry again, you are putting yourself out, and making up your mind to be as beastly as you can to her--his wife, I mean. I know you--you can be nasty when you like--at least you used to be," he corrected. "You've been jolly decent lately; now you are going to spoil it all by being mean." "Mean? I don't understand. In what way am I mean--and to whom?"