The November draught swept frostily down from the tracks to the station subway where Daisy, in her smart furs, stood, some three months later, waiting for the passengers from the train which had just roared into the great iron-ceiled shed overhead. She could not help thinking of the day when, gazing wonderingly about her, she had trotted alongside the self-assured and patronising Fred Beatty through this very way—forgetting, on that occasion, her travel-soiled blouse, in her wonder and rapture as the city rose about her like a warm sun-glowing tide. Only six months ago!

As the passengers from the newly-arrived train commenced to file along the corridor, Daisy, watching from her place in line, found her interest centred almost as much in looking for some forlorn and eager little person like that self of her present memory, as in "keeping her eye peeled" (in accordance with the request contained in a recently-received letter) for John and Lovina Nixon. But the travellers on this train were nearly all either blase souls of the "drummer" type, who have no wonder left for anything beneath the sun, or badger-gray country people who looked as though they were on a business trip and were doing mental arithmetic relating to hotel-bills as they stumped along. All bored, dull, worried or indifferent. No gay, no dancing, no holiday souls in the whole drab-faced file—at almost the end of which came stony-faced John Nixon with his square beard, dingy skin, harshly-drawn brows and mouth, and small suspicious eyes; and thin, stooped, fault-finding Lovina, with her sharp nose, her glance of ill-surmise, and bonnet pinned teeteringly on her top-knot.

Recollection blew on Daisy like a cold wave with her first view of them; but the feeling passed, and she found herself waiting mischievously to see if they would recognize her.

John Nixon passed dourly on; but Lovina's hawklike eyes, as she drew opposite to where Daisy stood, found her daughter instantly.

"Well, mother," Daisy drew her cape of sables about her shoulders and, moulding her features into a welcoming smile—which, when facing Lovina Nixon, required an effort—stepped forward.

The mother's chin came out. Her eyes drew to button-like points. There was nothing maternal about the look. It was merely a glance which bespoke ill-expectation gratified.

"John!" she chirped, to the stepfather, who had meandered on, "here!"

John Nixon turned and came back. His brows knitted as he glanced from his wife to the girl in her splendid furs; then, as his eyes travelled to Daisy's face, he gave vent to an expression which sounded like, "Ur-rh!"

"Look at this!" said Lovina Nixon; catching an end of the sable cape, holding it up for her husband's scrutiny, and then tossing it from her and making a motion of dusting off her hands; "You know what that means, I s'pose, John?"

"Ay," said John Nixon, "ay-hay."

"Disgraced!" said Lovina Nixon; "Disgraced! Oh, you—you thing! Just wait till I get you home! Just you wait!"

Daisy's cheeks warmed at this. But, a moment after, her indignation changed to an impulse of roguery: she would let these two, for the present, believe the things they thought!

"I s'pose you can show us a respectable hotel," said her mother. "But remember—you don't get out of my sight again. You stay right with me in the hotel, till we leave town. Carry this valise for me."

Daisy dimpled with devilment as she obeyed this refreshingly familiar instruction; and, accentuating her figure-lines as she walked, for the especial benefit of the furtively-watching couple, she led the way to where Tim Davitt, the Wares' chauffeur, waited outside the depot with the limousine.

"What's this?" demanded Lovina Nixon, surveying the vehicle, "a livery rig?"

"Yes, mother," said Daisy, smiling aside at the chauffeur, as Davitt, touching his hat, held the door open. The mother, knocking her bonnet askew against the top of the car, blundered to the farther end of a seat. John Nixon lumbered in after her. Then Daisy, after a low-toned "Home, Timmy," hopped in and snuggled mischievously against her stepfather, who was in the centre of the seat.

"Don't ye be 'fraid," he leaned over and whispered, not unkindly, in her ear, "I'll not let yur Moh whup ye."

Turning street-corners smoothly and swiftly, the limousine soon reached the home grounds and was brought by Tim Davitt, deftest of chauffeurs, to a soft gliding halt before the long front veranda of the Ware house.

"Is this an expensive boardin'-place?" Lovina Nixon enquired, as she and her husband followed Daisy up the steps.

"Oh—not very," Daisy answered, as she swung open the door and ushered her parents into the quietly furnished hall, with its deep, soft rugs, polished floor, and walnut hat-rack. A door on the right led into the library; and through this Daisy, after depositing the mother's valise in the hall, led the fumbling man and woman. The room was empty, as Lady Frances was in the kitchen, overseeing, after her thrifty fashion, the supper preparations, and Sir William was not yet home from the office.

"Queer kind of a hotel." Lovina Nixon's eyes followed her daughter suspiciously, as Daisy went to the centre-table and opened a massive volume with brass binding and buckle.

"Come on, mother, and register!" said the girl then, with a queer expression; pointing down to the opened page, and regarding the sharp-nosed ill-expectant woman with eyes that were bright and flashing as live fire.

Lovina Nixon advanced; felt for her glasses; put them on; bent over; and, in the big family Bible that Daisy had laid open, read the record of the marriage of her daughter to Sir William Ware, Baronet.