Very slowly and deliberately, Missy unwound her arms and lifted her head, and got out of the chair, and stood to her full height in the dark verandah. “That's just it,” she said calmly, distinctly. “That's just what I was coming to.” But Mr. Teesdale had also risen, and he was not listening to Missy. For footsteps were drawing near through the grass—footsteps and the rustle of stiff Sunday gowns, and the creaking of comfortless Sunday boots—and a harsh voice was crying more harshly than was even its wont: “Is that you, David? And is that Miriam beside you? And how dare she come back and show her face, I wonder? Ay, that's what I want to know!” David ran to meet and expostulate with his harder half. It was seldom that he even tried to quell that outspoken tongue; but now he both tried and succeeded, though Missy in the verandah could not hear by how much artifice or in what words. In another minute, however, Mr. Teesdale was again at her side, while his wife and daughter went past them and into the house without further parley. These few words were then exchanged in the verandah: “Missy, she didn't mean it. You'll hear no more about it—not a word from anybody.” “I deserve to, nevertheless.” “So you'll come in, won't you, and have your supper like a dear good girl?” “Ah, yes, I'll come in now.” “I was so afraid—Mrs. T. is that hasty and plain-spoken—that what she said might make you say you'd never come into our house any more.” “Not it,” said Missy with a laugh. “That's the sort of thing to have the very opposite effect upon you. Come on in!” CHAPTER XIV.—A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.