After that events moved very quickly. When a few minutes later Mr. Anstruther returned in a cab, he was met on the doorstep by most of the members of the family, who crowded round him and shouted out the good news that his granddaughter was found.

"Margaret at Wrexley Park!" he said, when he had alighted from the cab and could make his voice heard. "How exceedingly strange that she should have found her way there!"

"Well, I don't know," said Geoffrey. "If one shot by Windy Gap, which is what she must have done in the darkness, she had only to keep on and on and she would be bound to strike Wrexley next. You see, sir, it lies right under the lee of the downs."

"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Anstruther patiently. "But when I commented on the singularity of the circumstance which had directed the steps of my granddaughter towards Wrexley, I was not referring so much to the relative geographical positions of Windy Gap and Wrexley, with which indeed I am unacquainted, but——"

"You were thinking how funny it was that she should have fetched up at her own aunt's house in the end," broke in Maud, for which unceremonious interruption she received a glance of reproof from Mr. Anstruther, and scant thanks afterwards from the other members of the family who had been hanging delightedly on Mr. Anstruther's careful phraseology, and who had all wanted to hear him finish his remark for himself.

Then Mr. Anstruther went up to Eleanor, who was standing a little apart from all the others, and after subjecting her to a moment's severe scrutiny, spoke abruptly:—

"I am glad your anxiety is at an end. I think you have been sufficiently punished."

Eleanor smiled a little tremulously. The punishment had indeed been sharp, although it had been nothing but the voice of her own conscience.

"Can you forgive me?" she said.

"Yes," he answered, in his cold, precise accents, "I can now. Though I make no secret of the fact that, had my just resentment against you not been softened by the anxiety we have shared in common, my reply to that question would have been in the negative."

Then the motor from Wrexley having arrived, Mr. Anstruther made his formal farewells and drove away, followed, it must be confessed, by a sigh of universal relief at his departure.

When he had gone Eleanor became conscious that her position in the house was rather a peculiar one. She had been dumped there, she reflected, just as if she had been a bale of goods, and the person who had brought her had neglected to remove her again. But, at any rate, she could remove herself, and that she would do as speedily as possible, and she was on the point of saying good-bye to Mrs. Danvers when the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel, and up drove Mrs. Murray in her pony carriage.

She had arrived to fetch Miss Carson, she said, when Geoffrey, who had become very friendly with her during his nightly visits, went out to her. No, she would not alight. Yes, she had heard the good news about Miss Anstruther. Could Miss Carson come at once, as Punch and Judy were already very cross at having been taken out at that hour in the morning, and would not stand.

The ponies' bad behaviour spared Eleanor the embarrassment of prolonged farewells, nor had she even the chance of making the apology to Mrs. Danvers, which she knew she owed her, but hastily flinging on her hat and coat, she ran out at once and took her seat beside Mrs. Murray, and the next minute they were bowling at a smart trot down the drive. Eleanor was touched to the quick by this act of kindness on Mrs. Murray's part.

"But you should not have come out so early in the morning after you have been in the house for so many days," she said.

"My dear," said Mrs. Murray, "it will have done me no harm. I wanted to come and fetch you back myself."

Except for those two remarks the drive was accomplished almost in silence. And Eleanor was only too glad not to have to speak. The reaction after the long strain of the night was beginning to tell at length on her and she was almost too tired to keep her eyes open.

She wondered if Mrs. Murray would let her go to bed when they got to Rose Cottage, or if she must pack her box and take her departure then and there. But Mrs. Murray set her doubts on that point at rest directly they reached home by telling her to go straight to bed. "And sleep as long as you can," she added.

"But," said Eleanor, hanging back as Mrs. Murray gave her a gentle little push towards the staircase, "if I sleep too late I shan't be able to leave to-night."

"I will wake you in time to catch the train I wish you to catch," Mrs. Murray said. And Eleanor said no more, but stumbled wearily upstairs, thinking as she went that, of course, she had not expected that Mrs. Murray would let her stay even to the end of the holidays, now some eight or ten days distant, but she had not guessed that she would be turned out of the house quite so summarily and even have her train chosen for her. However, the thought just passed through her mind; she was far too weary to dwell upon it, and in less than five minutes she was in bed and fast asleep.

And she slept the whole day without waking, and while she was thus occupied Mrs. Murray went down to Wrexley Park and saw the real Margaret, the girl who should have come to her, but who had elected to do otherwise.

Fresh from an interview she had just had with her grandfather, in which, though true to the resolution he had formed not to blame her very severely, he had been unable to refrain from letting her know how heinous he considered her conduct, Margaret was too nervous and upset to be at ease in Mrs. Murray's presence, and that lady, though making every allowance for her perturbed, conscience-stricken state of mind, could not help contrasting her constrained, embarrassed manner unfavourably with Eleanor's frank, bright demeanour. And Mrs. Murray felt convinced that the real Margaret would never have been as happy with her as her substitute had been.

In more ways than one that day, the first she had passed for many weeks under her own name, was a very trying one for Margaret. She would gladly have spent it in bed, as Eleanor had done, but as the doctor who had come to see her had pronounced her little the worse for her night in the wood shed, there had been no excuse for her to stay in bed, and she had been obliged, about eleven o'clock, to get up to see her grandfather first, then Mrs. Murray, and later in the morning Mrs. Danvers, and Hilary, who had been brought out to Wrexley to apologise for her outrageous behaviour of the day before. Mrs. Danvers had been naturally anxious to know where Margaret had passed the night while search had been so vainly made for her, and she could scarcely believe that mere chance had indeed led Margaret across the downs to Wrexley woods in the darkness. And yet such, as Geoffrey had surmised, had been the case. Trying to reach Windy Gap Margaret had passed close by it in the fog and had wandered on and on until, somewhere about midnight, she had found herself at the entrance to a small hut in the wood, and, thankful beyond words to be in shelter of some sort, she had crept into it and, making herself as comfortable as she could on some dry faggots of sticks, had fallen sound asleep. And she had been still sleeping when Sir Richard, who usually took a stroll before breakfast every morning, had come suddenly upon her. But when Margaret, who said that she freely forgave Hilary—as, indeed, she did—for all her unkindness and foolish suspicions about her, would have apologised in her turn for the deception she had practised upon her, that good-natured lady checked her at once.

"My dear," she said, "I can't see that you did me any harm. You made the children an excellent holiday governess, and you were always so kind about winding my wool and picking up my stitches that I shall miss you dreadfully. So say no more about the wrong you did me. I am quite sure that I liked you a great deal better than I should have liked the real Miss Carson, though I dare say she might have got on better with my young people. You have heard, of course, that it was my two boys, Noel and Jack, who put all those things in your box. Oh, not with a view to getting you into trouble, but it was a prank they had played off upon Colonel Baker. I made them go down and confess to him this morning and take his property back with them, and, judging from their crestfallen looks ever since, I fancy they have had a talking-to that they won't forget in a hurry. So they have been well punished, and Tommy has been wired to to come home at once, so he has been punished. And Hilary's punishment here is to come. It will take the form of such endless banter and chaff from her brothers and sisters that it will be a long time before she thinks of playing private detective to any one in my house again."

That Margaret, too, had been punished for her conduct no one knew better than herself. Not only had she suffered from a troubled conscience for the last seven weeks, but she had been distinctly unhappy in the uncongenial surroundings into which she had forced herself, and for that she had no one but herself to thank. Nevertheless, although she fully recognised how much she had been to blame in breaking loose as she had done, she had learned, from seeing the lives of other girls, that her grandfather's rigorous rule over her was as absurd as it was unjust. She was eighteen and she was treated as though she were eight. Why, even Daisy and David had far more liberty of action than she was allowed. She looked forward with positive dread to the thought of going back to Greystones and resuming the queer, solitary life she had led there since Miss Bidwell had left.

But her surprise was unbounded when she learned, as she did later in the afternoon of the same day, that Greystones was never again to be her home. "Though, of course, my dear Margaret, Miss Bidwell and I—that is to say, my future wife and I, for Miss Bidwell is doing me the honour of becoming my wife on the 9th of next month—will always be pleased to see you there on very long visits whenever and as often as you like to come."

For it was in that manner that Mr. Anstruther broke the news to Margaret of his intended marriage to her late governess. As it had already transpired in conversation with Mrs. Murray, he had spent the last fortnight in the little German town where Miss Bidwell was staying with friends and undergoing treatment for her eyes, and it was because he had given no directions for his letters to be forwarded that Mrs. Murray had had no answer to the last two she had written him. It was for the purpose of telling her and Mrs. Murray that he was shortly to be married to Miss Bidwell that he had come to Windy Gap the previous day and also to learn if Mrs. Murray would consent to keep his granddaughter with her for some months longer. However, as he was at some pains to explain to Mrs. Murray at the sort of family conclave that was being held that morning at Wrexley Park, "As she has not been with you at all and seeing in what an ungrateful spirit she treated your kind invitation to her, I cannot expect you to be willing to receive her into your house. I must therefore endeavour to make other arrangements for her. I should like to add that it is in no spirit of vindictiveness towards her that I wish her now to make her home elsewhere, but because I am convinced that it would not be for her happiness to reside permanently at Greystones now that her late governess will be installed there as mistress. Miss Bidwell is a lady of very strong character and might continue to look upon Margaret as a child and to treat her as such." He paused for a moment and then added, "I realise now that a girl of eighteen requires more liberty of thought and action than I permitted to Margaret."

That was the only admission Mr. Anstruther was ever heard to make that perhaps his system of education was not as perfect as he had deemed it, but coming from him it meant a good deal.

But it was then that Lady Strangways had intervened with a suggestion of her own.

"Let me have her, Mr. Anstruther," she said, "After all, I am her aunt, and I should like nothing better than to adopt her as my daughter. I have taken a great fancy to Margaret and she to me. I fancy I could make her very happy if she would consent to come to me."

"I think her consent may be taken for granted," said Mr. Anstruther in his old arbitrary manner and quite forgetting his admission of a few moments back; "she is still considerably under age and is therefore subject to my orders until she attains her majority."

"But I should not care in the least for a daughter who was ordered to love me," said Lady Strangways, smiling.

However, when Margaret was summoned to the library and her aunt's suggestion made known to her, the radiant look of happiness with which she received it left no one, least of all Lady Strangways, in doubt of her willingness to obey this last command of her grandfather's.

And so Margaret's immediate future being satisfactorily settled, Mrs. Murray went back to Windy Gap. She found Eleanor in her room on her knees before her open trunk which she was busily engaged in packing.

Very deliberately Mrs. Murray closed the trunk, and, perhaps because all the available chairs were strewn with Eleanor's clothes, sat down on the lid.

"Lady Strangways has adopted Margaret," she said.

"Oh," exclaimed Eleanor eagerly, "I am glad! Margaret will like that. She had already fallen in love with her aunt, and will like nothing better than to be with her. How is she after last night?"

"Quite well, except for a very bad cold in her head. But I will tell you all about her adventures presently. It is of you I want to speak now." Suddenly she bent forward and put her hands on Eleanor's shoulders. "Eleanor, dear," she said, "will you let me adopt you as Lady Strangways has adopted Margaret? I would not make the offer, dear, if you had any relations of your own to go to. A lonely, deaf old woman has not much to offer to a young girl like you with all her life before her, but it would be such a pleasure to feel that I had you to live for. Hush, don't answer yet. Lady Strangways has told me all about you—as much, at least, as she had learned from Margaret. And I know all about your wonderful voice and the possibilities that lie in front of you, if you can have proper training. I am not a wealthy woman, but I have more than enough for both of us, and if you will stay with me we will go to Paris, Milan, or any other place that Madame Martelli says you ought to go to. And you shall have the best teaching in Europe."

What answer Eleanor made to this astoundingly splendid offer neither she nor Mrs. Murray could ever remember. It is doubtful, indeed, if she made any in words, for after trying once or twice to speak she gave up the attempt and cried out of pure joy.

But apparently Mrs. Murray was quite satisfied with this answer, for her kind old face, which had worn an anxious look while waiting for Eleanor's reply, took on a most contented expression.

"But your dear little home," Eleanor said presently when her tears were dry, and being such happy ones they had dried very quickly. "How will you like to leave that?"

"I am tired of my dear little home," said Mrs. Murray briskly. "I want to travel. Besides, the doctor has told me that in any case I mustn't spend another winter here until I get my rheumatism out of my system. And so, my dear, we will be off as soon as you like."

Eleanor and Margaret only met once before the former started for Italy with Mrs. Murray. Madame Martelli had recommended a course of study at Milan, and armed with many introductions to musical people of note, they were to leave almost immediately for that town.

Margaret had motored up to Rose Cottage with her aunt to say good-bye, and the two girls had gone out into the garden together. By common consent their steps led them towards the little summer-house where they had held so many stolen interviews.

"Strictly speaking," said Eleanor, "neither of us deserve to be as happy as we are. At least," she added, "I know I don't. We behaved disgracefully—at least I know I did. And yet, in the end, we have got everything we wanted."

"Would you do it again?" Margaret asked.

Eleanor shook her head most emphatically. "No," she said, "if I live to be ninety I shall never forget that long night. I would not go through it again on any account whatever—at least, I mean, you know that I would not again risk anything happening to you through me."

"Not even for the sake of your voice?" said Margaret rather wonderingly.

"No," said Eleanor firmly, "not even for the sake of my voice. If you had been killed that night I should never, never have forgiven myself. I feel now that it would have served me perfectly right if you had tumbled over the cliff and been killed. It would have been only what I deserved, for then I should have been obliged to suffer from a life-long remorse."

"Oh!" said Margaret rather doubtfully. Then she laughed. "Don't you think," she asked, "that it would have been rather hard on me if you had been punished like that?"

Eleanor laughed too. "I must say that I wasn't thinking of you at the moment," she said; "to forget other people's feelings was always a trick of mine, as you know; however, I really am reforming fast. By the way, have you seen anything of the Danvers since you left them?"

"I saw Hilary in the town, and she stopped to speak to me. She is reforming, too," Margaret added, with another smile. "I seem to be having quite an improving effect upon other people's characters. She told me that one reason why she took such a dislike to me was because she was afraid that I would accept her sister's offer to go out to Los Angelos with her in the spring as her governess, and that she had been jealous of me because she wanted to go herself. But the funny part is," continued Margaret, "that now she no longer wants to go either; her latest idea is to go to Girton, and she is going to read hard with a tutor at home all this winter so that she can pass the necessary examinations in the spring."

"And a very good thing for her too," said Eleanor; "if she had had more to occupy herself with this summer, she wouldn't have busied herself so disastrously with our affairs. I am afraid she made you very unhappy while you were there, and I, like a selfish oyster, sat tight here and kept you out of your rightful place."

"I am very glad you did," said Margaret earnestly, "or perhaps I might never have gone to live with Aunt Helen."

"You mean, you think that Mrs. Murray would never have given you up to her," said Eleanor with twinkling eyes. "You need not be afraid, Margaret, Mrs. Murray likes me much better than she would have ever liked you; she as good as told me so."

"And Aunt Helen likes me best," retorted Margaret.

"All's well that end's well, then," said Eleanor laughing; "though, mind you, I must candidly confess that I don't believe that that is a very moral reflection to apply to the end of our conspiracy. However, as we have been forgiven all round, and as we really did no one any harm, we need not be very severe on ourselves.

"But don't forget, Margaret, that I was your first friend; the first girl, with the exception of your dream-friend Eleanor, that you ever spoke to. And you will write to me regularly, won't you, dear?"

"Oh yes, I will write," Margaret answered, smiling a little wistfully; "but I do not believe you will answer many of my letters. You will be so full of your own interests, and so busy getting famous, that I shall soon drop out of your remembrance."

"Never!" said Eleanor with a passionate vehemence that fairly startled Margaret. "Please, please, Margaret, get it out of your head that I am the selfish, hard sort of person you first knew. I shall never forget the girl who helped me out of my shallows and miseries and set me afloat on my full sea. You will only come second in my affections to Mrs. Murray, to whom I shall simply never be able to repay all her kindness and goodness, so if you want to hurt me, Margaret, accuse me again of fickleness and ingratitude."

"But I don't wish to hurt you," Margaret protested. "You know, Eleanor, I am only too pleased to have you for a friend. Let us always be friends, Eleanor dear."

"We always will," Eleanor declared. "It is the fashion to laugh at girls' vows of eternal friendship. I laughed at them myself, you know, for have I not lived four years in a girls' school! But no one need trouble to laugh at our vows, Margaret, for I know you to be a faithful little soul, and I owe you far too much ever to cease to love you."

THE END.