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old days. She had hated doing it, but it had been in a
measure a relief to her torn heart. It was thus she rendered inviolate that
inner sanctuary of memory which none might enter.
As she passed along the terrace in the golden glow, the slight frown
was still upon her brow. It had been such a difficult time. Her one ray
of comfort had been the thought of Guy, dear, faithful lover working
for her far away. And now old Jeffcott had cast a shade even upon that.
But then he did not really know Guy. No one knew him as she knew
him. She quickened her steps a little. Possibly there might be a letter
from him that evening.
There was. She spied it lying on the hall table as she entered. Eagerly
she went forward and picked it up. But as she did so there came the
sound of a car in the drive before the open front door, and quickly she
thrust it away in the folds of her dress. The travellers had returned.
With a resolutely smiling face she went to meet them.

CHAPTER II
THE NEW MISTRESS

"Here is our dear Sylvia!" said Mrs. Ingleton.
She embraced the girl with much empressement, and then, before
Sylvia could reach her father, turned and embraced him herself.
"So very nice to be home, dear!" she said effusively. "We shall be very
happy here."
Gilbert Ingleton bestowed a somewhat embarrassed salute upon her,
one eye on his daughter. She greeted him sedately the next moment,
and though her face was smiling, her welcome seemed to be frozen at
its source; it held no warmth.
Mrs. Ingleton, tall, handsome, assertive, cast an appraising eye around
the oak-panelled hall. "Dear me! What severe splendour!" she
commented. "I have a great love for cosiness myself. We must scatter
some of those sweet little Italian ornaments about, Gilbert. You won't
know the place when I have done with it. I am going to take you all in
hand and bring you up-to-date."
Her keen dark eyes rested upon her step-daughter with a smile of
peculiar meaning. Sylvia met them with the utmost directness.
"We like simplicity," she said.
Mrs. Ingleton pursed her lips, "Oh, but there is simplicity and
simplicity! Give me warmth, homeliness, and plenty of pretty things.
This place is archaically cold--quite like a convent. And you, my dear,
might be the Sister Superior from your air. Now, Gilbert darling, you
and I are going to be very firm with this child. I can plainly see she
needs a guiding hand. She has had much too much responsibility for so
young a girl. We are going to alter all that. We are going to make her
very happy--as well as good."
She tapped Sylvia's shoulder with smiling significance, looking at her
husband to set his seal to the declaration.
Mr. Ingleton was obviously feeling very uncomfortable. He glanced at

Sylvia almost appealingly.
"I hope we are all going to be happy," he said rather gruffly. "Don't see
why we shouldn't be, I'm sure. I like a quiet life myself. Got some tea
for us, Sylvia?"
Sylvia turned, stiffly unresponsive to her step-mother's blandishments.
"This way," she said, and crossed the hall to the drawing-room.
It was a beautiful room aglow just then with the rays of the western sun.
Mrs. Ingleton looked all around her with smiling criticism, and nodded
to herself as if seeing her way to many improvements. She walked to
the windows.
"What a funny, old-fashioned garden! Quite medieval! I foresee a very
busy time in store. Who lives on the other side of this property?"
"Preston--George Preston, the M.F.H.," said her husband, lounging up
behind her. "About the richest man about here. Made his money on the
Turf."
She gave him a quick look. "Is he young?" she asked.
He hesitated, "Not very."
"Married?" questioned Mrs. Ingleton, with the air of a ferret pursuing
its quarry down a hole.
"No," said the squire, somewhat reluctantly.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Ingleton, in a tone of satisfaction.
"Won't you have some tea?" said Sylvia's grave voice behind them.
Mrs. Ingleton wheeled. "Bless the child!" she exclaimed. "She has a
face as long as a fiddle. Let us have tea by all means. I am as hungry as
a hunter. I hope there is something really substantial for us."
"It is less than an hour to dinner," said Sylvia.

She hardly looked at her father. Somehow she had a feeling that he did
not want to meet her eyes.
He sat in almost unbroken silence while she poured out the tea, "for the
last time, dear," as her step-mother jocosely remarked, and for his sake
alone she exerted herself to make polite conversation with this new
mistress of the Manor.