The same party with so many differences. There were only Mrs. Harwood and Meredith who were unchanged. She sat in the usual warm corner, with the usual white fleecy knitting, which never changed, in her lace cap and white shawl, with her pretty complexion and her smiling looks, the woman of whom people said that she must have lain in the lilies and fed on the roses of life to preserve that wonderful complexion and eyes so clear and so bright. And he, looking so much better--really assured in his health, the tints of weakness going off, the high color which was at once his characteristic and the drawback to his good looks coming back, and his high spirits as if they had never had any check. It was only last night that he had been following up that discovery with the eagerness of a bloodhound, forgetting everything but the scent on which he was following on to the end. All that had now flown away. He was the Charley Meredith of old, playful and ready to “chaff” everybody round, talking of the new songs and what would suit “our” voices, and lamenting the interrupted “practisings.” Charley was as if nothing had happened, full of fun, eager for amusement, calling upon the mother for sympathy and encouragement. “They have all become so grave,” he said. “It is you and I, Mrs. Harwood, that will have to perform our duet.” “Well,” said Mrs. Harwood, “if I had been twenty years younger, there is no telling what might have happened. I should not have kept you waiting, Charley. I wish, Gussy, you would not look as if you had been to a funeral this afternoon.” “Not this afternoon--but something a little like it, mamma.” “You are talking great nonsense, my dear. If there is anybody that ought to be cast down, it is surely me. All my troubles have been forced back upon me; but I have the comfort of knowing,” said Mrs. Harwood, with a slightly raised voice, “that I never meant any harm--and that I have done none--and that the last people in the world to criticise me are my children: so I desire that there shall be an end of this. I have been summoned, as I expected, to explain everything: and Charley has kindly promised to appear for me and clear it all up--and secure permission for me to look after my poor dear upstairs, as I have done ever since he was afflicted. When I have made it all clear with the Lunacy commissioners I may perhaps be supposed to have done enough, though one can never know.” “Mamma,” said Gussy, “there was no need for anything but to be frank and open. You have not been open--not to me, who was taken more or less into your confidence. I suppose you were compelled to tell me something, but not all, or nearly all. A child could see there is more in it than meets the eye. And now I presume you have taken Mr. Meredith into your confidence, but none of your children.” “Why _Mr._ Meredith?” said he, with a smile, putting out his hand for hers.