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ZELLA spent that day and the next in a characteristic agony of apprehension.

She thought that she had acted treacherously, and dreaded lest her Aunt Marianne should find it out. What if her father wrote from Villetswood to tell Aunt Marianne that Zella was unhappy under her charge, and wanted to come home at once? Or supposing he really thought, as Aunt Marianne said, that she was better at Boscombe, and wrote to say that she could not return to Villetswood for the present?

She suffered acutely in anticipating these and other varied replies to her appeal, before her father's letter actually arrived, by return of post.

"Ma Chèrie—Je compte venir passer 2 ou 3 jours chez ta tante, jeudi, si elle pent me recevoir. Sois tranquille; nous arrangerons la chose et tu feras comme tu voudra.—Ton pere qui t'aime."

Zella felt a rush of grateful tenderness at the old indulgent tone, which she had learnt to value as never before, in the well-regulated Lloyd-Evans household, from whence it was so conspicuously absent.

Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, beyond saying, with a heavy sigh, that it would remind one of those happy times that would never come back again, made no allusion to her brother-in-law's proposed visit in Zella's hearing.

But she said to her husband privately: "Henry, I hope poor Louis has no mad scheme for taking Zella back to Villetswood with him."

"Mad scheme ?" said Henry questioningly.

"Yes, dear. It would be terribly morbid and unnatural if he insisted on taking her to that big lonely house, full of sad memories and associations. of dear, dear Esmée; and I shall certainly tell him so, if he suggests anything of the sort."

"I don't suppose he will," Henry returned comfortably. "Probably only too glad to know she's so well and happy here.'

"One never can tell what foreigners may think," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans impressively, "even when it is one's own brother-in-law."

Beyond kissing Zella half a dozen times on both cheeks when he arrived, Louis de Kervoyou gave no glaring evidences of his foreignness until the morning after his arrival at Boscombe.

He had regained more of his habitual joviality of manner than his sister-in-law thought particularly suitable in the space of two months, and she told her husband, in a depressed tone of voice, that it seemed very probable that poor Louis would soon want to marry again.

Zella, finding the father who had spoilt and petted her all her life apparently returned to his kindly, merry self, was too thankful at finding herself in the old lighthearted atmosphere again, to make any allusion to the bereavement which she had learned to connect with hushed tones and a tearful solemnity.

It was a slight shock to her when her father mentioned her mother's name in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner in the course of conversation that evening, and Aunt Marianne winced so perceptibly that she felt almost obliged to draw in her breath with a little quick sound suggestive of pain. After that Louis de Kervoyou did not speak of his wife again, though he came upstairs and talked to Zella for a long while after she was in bed that evening. But he was very kind and affectionate, and obviously delighted to have her with him again.

Next morning he looked at the evidences of her toil with Miss Vincent, when Mrs. Lloyd-Evans directed her to fetch her books from the schoolroom and show papa how nicely she was getting on; but he did not seem greatly impressed, and merely observed:

"Tu n'as pas perdu ton français, petite, hein?"

"Certainly not," said her aunt in English. "Miss Vincent knows French thoroughly, and the children always speak it at meals."

He made a little courteous gesture of acknowledgment towards the governess. "I am very grateful to Miss Vincent," he said, smiling at her.

"You see, Louis, Zella really is very backward with her English, though, of course, she speaks French very nicely," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, giving Miss Vincent a quiet look which the governess rightly interpreted to mean that a conversation must now take place between Zella's father and her aunt, at which Zella was not meant to assist.

The governess accordingly sent her pupil up to the schoolroom with a brisk "Now run and put away your books, dear, and get ready for a walk," and herself followed the reluctant Zella out of the room.

But Zella's reluctance was merely on the general principles of annoyance at being told to "run," and dislike of being sent out of the room like a small child. She knew quite well what her father was about to say to Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, and felt no desire to witness her Aunt Marianne's reception of his tidings.

It was not without some humorous apprehension on the part of Louis de Kervoyou himself that he began:

"It has been more than good of you to take such care of the child, Marianne, and I only wish I could thank you sufficiently; but I know how gladly you've done it," he added hastily, forestalling a reference, which he felt to be imminent, to Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's dear, dear only sister.

"But I think it's time I had her with me again, poor little thing! or she will feel I'm shirking my responsibilities," he ended with a rather melancholy smile.

"No one could possibly think that, Louis, if you leave her here, where she will always have a home and a mother's care—unless, indeed, you think she ought to be at school?"

"Certainly not. There has never been any question of her going to school. But, my dear Marianne, Villetswood is Zella's natural home, even though circumstances have altered."

"They have indeed," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans agitatedly; "and you surely cannot intend, Louis, to keep her alone in that great house, with no one but the servants. For although a father may be very devoted, a girl must have a mother, at Zella's age, or some good woman to take a mother's place."

"I do not think anyone can do that," said Louis gravely; " but Zella shall not lack care."

"Governesses are sometimes very artful, Louis, and you might find many unforeseen difficulties with them."

"No doubt," replied Louis dryly, rather inclined to laugh at the delicately veiled insinuation. "But for the moment I had not thought of getting a governess for Zella. It will be education enough, for the present, if I take her abroad with me."

All Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's most cherished prejudices settled round the fatal word "abroad," and she was silent from sincere dismay.

"I want a companion, and it will do Zella good," said Louis serenely. "Besides, it is time we went to visit my mother."

"Paris ?" almost groaned his sister-in-law.

"No. She is in Rome for the winter, and is very anxious that Zella and I should join her there for a couple of months."

Rome, to Mrs. Lloyd-Evans's thinking, was merely one degree worse than Paris, in harbouring the Pope and a society mainly composed of intriguing and loose-living Cardinals. Nor did she belong to the class that is accustomed to travelling as a matter of course, and, as she afterwards said to Henry, it seemed to her nothing less than scandalous that an old woman of seventy, like the Baronne de Kervoyou, should be rushing all over the globe at her time of life.

Louis, who with his wife was accustomed to spending a week in Paris or a fortnight in Italy whenever the fancy seized them, only partially understood her dismay.

"We shall be back by the middle of February, I expect," he said kindly, "and Zella will enjoy seeing Italy."

"Christmas in Rome!"

He misunderstood her. "The New Year is more of a festival there, I fancy."

"No wonder, in a country without any religion but Romanism!"

"Oh," said Louis rather humorously, "if that is what you are thinking of, there is an English church all right, and Zella can attend it; though I admit I much prefer the Catholic ones myself. But my mother, as a matter of fact, will be exceedingly particular about all that."

"Louis," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans warmly, "you have a perfect right to do as you please with your own child."

Few words could have conveyed her unalterable disapproval more effectively.

But Mrs. Lloyd-Evans gave no sign of disapproving her brother-in-law's decision before his child, to Zella's intense relief. A shade of added gravity in Aunt Marianne's manner might merely be attributed to the responsibility, which she took upon herself as a matter of course, of superintending Zella's packing and purchasing one or two additions to her mourning.

"You see, dear," she gravely told her niece, "you will hardly be able to get anything very suitable out there. I know what foreign shops are."

"We shall be two nights in Paris," said Zella.

"A little girl cannot shop in a town like Paris," Mrs. Lloyd-Evans told her, thereby infuriating Zella, who since her father's arrival had ceased to regard herself as a little girl.

The term, so obnoxious to fourteen, was now felt by Zella to be only appropriate to Muriel. For the past two months, Zella felt that she had been regarded by all her surroundings as Muriel's inferior in education, sense, and virtue; and, though Muriel herself was utterly unconscious on the subject, Zella had resented the knowledge passionately, and took full advantage of her present triumphant emancipation, suddenly magnificently self-confident again.

Muriel was frankly envious of a cousin whose father could suddenly arrive, as Uncle Louis had done, and take his daughter away from Miss Vincent and the routine of lessons and walks, to spend the winter abroad.

Miss Vincent said rather coldly:

"This will be an opportunity, Zella, for you to learn Italian. I hope you will make the most of it."

"When shall you start ?" Muriel asked wistfully.

"We are going to London on Monday, and to Paris next day; but I dare say we shall stay there a day or two," said Zella in the most matter-of-fact tone at her command. "Of course, I know Paris quite well already."

"You are lucky," said Muriel enviously.

"I am rather fond of travelling!" observed Zella casually.

Even the submissive Muriel was moved at this to say rather defiantly:

"Of course, I shall go abroad myself when I'm seventeen, to finish my education. I expect I shall go to Germany, so as to work at my violin-playing."

This reference to an accomplishment which she did not herself possess did not please Zella, and she replied that perhaps by that time, Muriel would have given up the fiddle. Muriel was offended, and the two cousins might have parted with some coldness but for the chastening influence of the Last Evening.

It was a modified edition of that Last Evening consecrated to James's departure, and the weight of it oppressed Zella strangely. She had not been happy at Boscombe, and had been glad to know she was leaving; yet she found herself gazing regretfully round the drawing-room, grown so familiar in the last two months, and at her silent relatives, of whom only her father was talking cheerfully and unconstrainedly.

She despised Muriel, and found her irritating and uncongenial; but she now sat and held Muriel's hand, and promised to write her long letters from Rome.

She even said, " Oh, I do wish you were coming, too! I shall miss you so," and felt that Muriel was her first cousin, exactly of her own age, and that they had been, and would always continue to be, sisters to one another.

And Muriel waxed disconsolate and affectionate, and gave Zella a small flat bottle of very strong scent "for the train."

Aunt Marianne also gave her a present.

She came to Zella's room after her niece was in bed, and said very kindly:

"Here is a little keepsake, darling, and I want you to make Aunt Marianne a promise."

The little keepsake was a copy of the "Imitation," bound in soft green morocco, with a green satin ribbon marker, and the smallest print Zella had ever seen. The promise was that she should read a chapter of it every night before going to bed.

She made the promise willingly, feeling intensely grateful for the gift, as a token that Aunt Marianne had, after all, found something about her niece that was lovable, although Zella knew herself to be a liar and deceitful and ungrateful.

"Aunt Marianne has marked one or two passages," Mrs. Lloyd-Evans told her gently. "But of course you can find others for yourself that will have a special meaning for you as you grow older. I always think that a book means so much more to one when one has marked all the little bits that come home to one most."

Zella, more than most children, had been brought up to consider scribbling on the pages of a book little short of criminal; but grave and considered underlinings and annotations in a book of devotion were a different matter. She rather looked forward to discovering in the " Imitation," which she had never read, passages peculiarly suited to the especial needs of her soul.

"I have put in a little pressed fern leaf from the garden, dear, to remind you of your home at Boscombe," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans; "and I thought one day you would like to add another for yourself, from your dear, dear mother's resting-place near the little church at Villetswood."

Mrs. Lloyd-Evans still avoided the expressions " grave" or "churchyard," and used such euphemisms as the present one, when speaking to Zella.

"I wish you could have paid a little visit there, dear, before going away, just to say good-bye to it."

"Oh, so do I! cried Zella, who had not thought of it before, but now felt a sudden wish that she and her father had been returning to Villetswood before leaving England. "But it isn't really good-bye; we shall be back in a month or two."

"I hope so," sighed Mrs.Lloyd-Evans. "Good-night, dear child, and remember that you can always count upon a welcome here whenever you like, and for as long as you please."

Zella knew that it was true, and felt more ashamed than ever for having wanted so much to go away from kind Aunt Marianne and dear Muriel.

The next day she and her father left Boscombe.

"Good-bye, Marianne, and thank you a hundred times for being so good to Zella. I wish I could tell you how grateful I am."

"Good-bye, Louis. One is so glad to have done all one could. . . . Take care of yourself, and let us know when you have arrived safely. Zella, my dear child, good-bye, and don't forget to write to Aunt Marianne. God bless you!" Mrs. Lloyd-Evans added in a low voice: " Be a great comfort to poor papa."

"Good-bye, Zella," said Muriel, hugging her. "You will write to me, won't you?"

"Yes, of course I will; and you'll write to me, won't you? Good-bye, Muriel darling "

"Good-bye, Uncle Henry."

"Good-bye, Zella."

"Good-bye."

The hall resounded with farewells.

At last Zella and her father were in the carriage, and Zella and Muriel had waved handkerchiefs from the hall door and the carriage window respectively, and the horses had turned down the drive and out of sight.

"Oh, I wonder when Zella will be back here again," instantly sighed Muriel.

"You had better run up to the schoolroom, darling," said her mother. And she remarked to her husband, when Muriel was out of hearing: "Henry, one never realized before, when dear Esmée's influence was there, how very foreign poor Louis really is."

"H'm. I see what you mean, ' was Henry's non-committal rejoinder. He did not see particularly, but Mrs. Lloyd-Evans at once enlightened him.

"What Englishman," she sighed, "would dream of taking a child like Zella, who is already rather a spoilt, artful little thing, to such a place as Rome? Mark my words, Henry; I should not be in the least surprised if the next thing we hear is that poor Louis, who is very weak and easily led, has been got hold of by some artful old Cardinal and turned into a Roman Catholic."