Constance was twenty-six, John, the master of Buddesby, was a year
younger, and Ellice was eighteen, her slender body as yet childish and
unformed, her gipsy-like face a little too thin. But there was beauty
there, wonderful and startling beauty that would one day blossom forth.
It was in the bud as yet, but the bud was near to opening.

They were at breakfast in the comfortable, shabby old morning-room at
Buddesby. It was eight o'clock, and John had been afield for a couple of
hours and had come back with his appetite sharp set.

They rose early at Buddesby. Constance had been at her housewifely
duties since soon after six. Only Ellice had lain abed till the ringing
of the breakfast-bell.

"A letter from Helen," Constance said.

"Helen? Oh, she's got to Starden then?" said John.

"And wants us to come over, dear."

"Of course! We'll go over next week some time. I'm busy now with--"

"It wouldn't be kind not to go at once."

"Who is Helen?" demanded Ellice. She looked fierce-eyed at Connie and
then at John. "Who is she?" A tinge of colour came into her cheeks.

Connie saw it, and sighed a little. She knew this girl's secret, knew it
only too well. Many an hour of anxiety and worry it had caused her.