We had what Jill called a picnic dinner in Uncle Brian's study. Every one enjoyed it but Clayton, who seemed rather put out by the disorganised state of the house, and who was always getting helplessly wedged in between the escritoire and the table. We would have much rather waited on ourselves, and we wished Mrs. Martin had forgone the usual number of courses. When it was over we all went into the long drawing-room, and Jill played soft snatches of Chopin, while Sara and Colonel Ferguson whispered together on the dark balcony. Mrs. Fullerton and Lesbia joined us later on, and then Colonel Ferguson took his leave. I thought Sara looked a little quiet and subdued when she joined us; her gay chatter had died away, her eyes were a little plaintive. When we had said good-night, and Jill and I were passing down the corridor hand in hand, we could hear voices from Aunt Philippa's room. Through the half-opened door I caught a glimpse of Sara: she was kneeling by her mother's chair, with her head on Aunt Philippa's shoulder. Was she bidding a tearful regret to her old happy life? I wondered; was she looking forward with natural shrinking and a little fear to the new responsibility that awaited her on the morrow? It was the mother who was talking; one could imagine how her heart would yearn over her child to-night,--what fond prayers would be uttered for the girl. Aunt Philippa was a loving mother: worldliness had not touched the ingrained warmth of her nature. I am glad to remember how brightly the sun shone on Sara's wedding-day. There was not a cloud in the sky. When I woke, the birds were singing in Hyde Park, and Jill in her white wrapper was looking at me with bright, excited eyes. 'It is such a lovely morning!' she exclaimed rapturously. 'Actually Sara is asleep! Fancy sleeping under such circumstances! She and mother are going to have breakfast together in the schoolroom. Do be quick and dress, Ursula; father is always so early, you know.' Uncle Brian was reading his paper as usual when I entered the study. Miss Gillespie was pouring out coffee. Jill was fidgeting about the room, until her father called her to order, and then she sat down to the table. I do not think any of us enjoyed our breakfast. Uncle Brian certainly looked dull; Jill was too excited to eat; poor Miss Gillespie had tears in her eyes; she poured out tea and coffee with cold shaking hands. 'Lilian Gillespie, from her devoted friend Maurice Compton,' came into my head: no wonder the thought of marriage-bells and bridal finery made her sad. I am afraid I should have shut myself up in my own room, and refused to mingle with the crowd, under these circumstances. I quite understood the feeling of sympathy that made Jill stoop down and kiss the smooth brown hair as she passed the governess's chair: it was a sort of affectionate homage to misfortune patiently borne.