“No--I really think I had better explain matters to Mrs. May first--and I should like to be quite alone, please,--without Miss Preston.” At that moment Miss Preston returned and said: “Mrs. May will see you.” Then, addressing Mr. May, she added: “This lady says she is some relative of yours--her name is May.” Mr. James Polydore’s small grey-green eyes opened as widely as their lids would allow. “A relative?” he repeated. “Surely you are mistaken?--I hardly think----” “Please don’t perplex yourself!” said Diana, sweetly. “I will explain everything to Mrs. May--she will remember! Can I go to her now?” “Certainly!” and Mr. May looked bewildered, but was too much overwhelmed by his visitor’s queenly air and surpassing loveliness to collect his wits, or ask any very pressing questions. “Let me show you the way!” He preceded her along the passage to the drawing-room where Mrs. May, newly risen from the sofa, stood waiting to receive her mysterious caller,--fatter and flabbier than ever, and attired in an ill-fitting grey gown with “touches” of black about it by way of the remainder of a year’s mourning. Diana knew that old grey gown well, and had often deplored its “cut” and generally hopeless floppiness. “Margaret,” announced Mr. May, with a jaunty air--“Here is a very charming young lady come to see you--Miss May!” Then to Diana: “As you wish to have a private talk, I’ll leave you, and return in a few minutes.” “Thanks very much!” answered Diana,--and the next moment the door closed, and she was left alone, with--her mother. No emotion moved her,--not a shadow of tenderness,--she only just wondered how she ever came to be born of such a curious-looking person! Mrs. May stared at her with round, unintelligent eyes like those of a codfish just landed. “I have not the--the pleasure----” she began. Diana advanced a step or two, holding out her hands. “Don’t you know me?” she said, at once--“Mother?” Mrs. May sidled feebly backwards like a round rickety table on casters, and nearly fell against the wall. “Don’t you know my voice?” went on Diana--“The voice you have heard talking to you for over forty years?--I am your daughter!--your own daughter, Diana! I am, indeed. I was not drowned though I let you all think I was!--I ran away because I was tired of my hum-drum life at home! I went abroad for a year and I have just come back. Oh, surely something will tell you I am your own child! A mother’s instinct, you know!” And she laughed,--a little laugh of chilliest satire. “I have grown much younger, I know--I will tell you all about that and the strange way it was done!--but I’m really your Diana! Your dear drowned ‘girl!’--I am waiting for you to put your arms round me and tell me how glad you are to have me back alive and well!”