strongly about some things. And he hasn't forgiven me yet for
letting you go."

Rather diffidently Lily put her hand on her mother's. She gave her
rare caresses shyly, with averted eyes, and she was always more
diffident with her mother than with her father. Such spontaneous
bursts of affection as she sometimes showed had been lavished on
Mademoiselle. It was Mademoiselle she had hugged rapturously on
her small feast days, Mademoiselle who never demanded affection,
and so received it.

"Poor mother!" she said, "I have made it hard for you, haven't I?
Is he as bad as ever?"

She had not pinned on the violets, but sat holding them in her
hands, now and then taking a luxurious sniff. She did not seem to
expect a reply. Between Grace and herself it was quite understood
that old Anthony Cardew was always as bad as could be.

"There is some sort of trouble at the mill. Your father is worried."

And this time it was Lily who did not reply. She said,
inconsequentially:

"We're saved, and it's all over. But sometimes I wonder if we were
worth saving. It all seems such a mess, doesn't it?" She glanced
out. They were drawing up before the house, and she looked at her
mother whimsically.

"The last of the Cardews returning from the wars!" she said. "Only