We hunted up the bag. It contained the return half of her ticket, a handkerchief, and a purse with four shillings and sixpence in it, but nothing by which I could certainly have identified her. She could remember now why she had come to London; it was an old and unimportant engagement with a dressmaker. It had been cancelled in consequence of her health. She could not remember going to the station. From that point until she met me everything was like a forgotten dream. There were advertisements in every paper next morning--discreet advertisements with no name given. I put her into the train, and spoke to the guard about her. I might have travelled with her, but I did not wish to meet grandpapa. I had not forgotten the letter he wrote to me when my father died. I did meet him in the end. One has to forgive one’s own flesh and blood. The letter which he sent to me was pathetic in its senile shakiness and absolutely right. He could not begin to thank me, so he said, for what I had done for Cynthia; all he wanted was to say he was sorry and ashamed. He would have liked to be friends with me before he died, but he supposed that was impossible. He would have liked also to have been of service to me, but from what he heard I no longer needed his help and was too proud to take it in any case. “Otherwise I should have liked a chance to have made up to you a very little for my obstinate cruelty to your father.” The letter touched me, and I am an impulsive person. I sent a telegram and followed it. Cynthia met me at the station, driving a fat pony in a governess cart, and very much inclined to cry when she saw me. I met my grandfather, who was very vague and grey and shrunk and sad. We became friends at once. I met Rose, the woman who had nursed Cynthia, and Rose said that I had supplanted her and she would call me out. She was quite charming. Many people were staying at the house, amongst others I met---- Let me get it over quickly, for the one thing that I will not tell is my love-story. It was very brief and tempestuous. In a few months I was playing with the lone hand no longer. I, with all my independence and all my common sense, fell hopelessly in love, and acknowledged in white satin, Honiton lace and orange blossom that I was a woman after all. Well, one might be worse things. One of the most expensive of my wedding presents came from Mr. James. The 36 h.-p. Pegasus car is of importance. I taught my husband to drive it. POSTSCRIPT