and her mouth defiant.

Her aunt kissed her, her cool, firm fingers against the girl's warm
neck.

"You will come to us now, dear. You should have come long ago."

Maggie wanted to speak, but she could not.

"We will try to make you happy, but ours is not an exciting life."

Maggie's eyes lit up. "It has not," she said, "been very exciting
here always." Then she went on, colour in her cheeks, "I think
father did all he could. I feel now that there were a lot of things
that I should have done, only I didn't see them at the time. He
never asked me to help him, but I wish now that I had offered--or--
suggested."

Her lips quivered, again she was near tears, and again, as it had
been on her walk with Uncle Mathew, her regret was not for her
father but for the waste that her life with him had been. But there
was something in her aunt that prevented complete confidence. She
seemed in something to be outside small daily troubles. Before they
could speak any more there was a knock on the door and Uncle Mathew
came in. He stood there looking both ashamed of himself and
obstinate.

He most certainly did not appear at his best, a large piece of
plaster on his right cheek showing where he had cut himself with his
razor, and a shabby and tight black suit (it was his London suit,