“You’ll be very, very glad to see mama again, won’t you, Caryl?” Rhoda asked that evening, when he had been put to bed and she was bending over him to bid him good-night. “It doesn’t make so much difference to me whether she’s here or not,” replied the child, in the quaint, old-fashioned way children have who see few playfellows or companions of their own age. Perhaps Rhoda looked rather shocked. So the boy added: “Mama is not like you. She likes to be out in her motor-car all day, or playing tennis or dancing. She isn’t quiet, like you.” “She will have brought you something pretty, I expect,” suggested Rhoda. “Oh, yes, but she never brings the things that I like,” complained Caryl. “What I want is a book full of pictures of hunting. I know she won’t bring me that.” Rhoda was struck with the pathos of this wish. For poor little Caryl, condemned to lie on his back and unable to run about and play like other children, had a passion for sport of all kinds, and was never happier than when watching a cricket or a football match; and even now, in early September, he was talking eagerly about the fox-hunting season, and asking Rhoda if she would take him to a meet of foxhounds when cub-hunting began. She had begun by this time to dread Lady Sarah’s return, to wonder whether her presence at the Mill-house would be resented by the flighty beauty, who would certainly remember her, and who might perhaps look upon her as an interloper, and be jealous of the help she gave to Sir Robert and of the love which little Caryl had already bestowed upon her. It was the next day that the mistress of the house was to arrive and Rhoda was now on thorns. In the old days, indeed, Lady Sarah had scarcely spoken to her, but she might not look upon her with the same indifference now. For Rhoda was conscious that there were whispers abroad concerning herself; and she guessed that, although the whole of the household, with the single exception of Mrs. Hawkes, was changed since she was there last, the housekeeper must have told some of the servants about the bicycle accident and the flight of Miss Pembury on the night of the tragedy at the Mill-house, and that there was a certain curiosity abroad concerning her. It was late in the day when Lady Sarah arrived, and coming up to the bedroom of her little son when he had retired for the night, found Rhoda in the room. Rhoda, however, regretting that she should have been found there, and fearing that Lady Sarah would think she was trying to take the mother’s place already with the boy, kept in the background, and witnessed, unremarked by Lady Sarah, the meeting between mother and son. “Well, Caryl, and how are you?” cried she, as she bent over him and gave him a light kiss on the forehead. “They tell me you’ve been getting on famously and that you’ve got an awfully nice companion now.” “Yes. I love Rhoda, and so will you, mama. Rhoda, come here. You shall see her, mama,” cried the boy in excitement.