Mr. Teesdale sat at his end of the old green tablecloth, reading a singularly unseasonable communication from that middle-man who bought the milk but was never in a position to pay for it. The time was half-past eleven in the forenoon of Boxing Day, and the daily delivery of letters had just taken place. It was naturally a little later than usual, but Mr. Teesdale wished with all his heart that there had been no delivery at all. At length he raised a tired face from his bad news, and let his eyes rest for the comfort of his spirit upon the red head and fringe of his solitary companion in the parlour. Missy was seated on the sofa, and all of her but the top of her head and the bottom of her dress, with a finger or two of each hand, was hidden behind the Argus newspaper. Missy always liked to see the Argus as soon as it came, though by that time it was never less than a day old, because Mr. Teesdale had it from a friend when the friend was done with it. This morning, as usual, he had handed it to the girl before opening his letters. He now sat staring absently at the girl's hair, and was therefore somewhat slow to notice that the narrow strip of forehead under the fringe was gone so white that it was difficult to tell where paper ended and forehead began. No sooner had David seen this, however, than he saw also the paper jumping up and down in the girl's grasp; whereupon the unpleasant letter in his own hands went straightway out of his head.

"Missy," he cried, "what's the matter, my dear? What have you seen?"

Missy dashed down the paper and was on her feet in an instant. There was extraordinary spirit in the action, and her eyes were very bright.

"What have I seen?" she repeated, in a tone that suppressed excitement rather than concern. "Nothing; that is, nothing that could interest any of you; only something about a friend of mine."

Yet she bounced out of the room without another word, and forthwith went in search of Arabella.

She found her in the dairy, which was half under the ground, and wholly out of the way.

"Arabella," she cried wildly, "put down that bowl and shake hands. We're safe!"

Now Arabella was not a person of quick perceptions. She was imaginative, she was inquisitive, she had a romantic side which had very nearly been the ruin of her at the responsible age of thirty-two. Like the parent whom she so strongly resembled in her undiscerning nature and easygoing temperament, she was sufficiently credulous, weak, and unwise in her generation. On the other hand, she was by no means without her father's merits. She had the same talent for affection, the same positive genius for uncommon gratitude. She could never make light of a good turn, not even in her own mind; nor out of her own mouth could she make too much of one. In the family circle she had been very silent and subdued during these last days, but to Missy in private she had opened a contrite and a very grateful heart more times than the other had liked to listen. Vague doubts and suspicions of Missy she had entertained in the beginning; she might have them still; nay, they might well be stronger than ever, after yesterday.

But one thing was now certain concerning these shy misgivings; they might rise to the mind, but they would never again pass the lips. No matter what Missy did or said, henceforth, Arabella would shield her with all the ingenuity at her command: which was not a little: only it was sometimes hindered by a certain slowness to perceive which frequently accompanies a constitutional readiness to imagine. So when Missy wanted her to shake hands because they were safe, Arabella looked perfectly blank.

"How are we safe?" she asked. "What are we safe from?"

"Why, from your friend."

"My friend? Ah!" She understood now.

"Yes, he won't trouble us much more," pursued Missy, sidling rhythmically from one foot to the other, while her eyes lit up the dairy. "O 'Bella, 'Bella, if you knew how I feel——"

"Stop a moment," said Arabella, white as the milk that she had spilled in her agitation; "is he—is he—dead?"

"Dead? I wish he was. No, no; he's only in prison."

"In prison?"

"Yes; run in the day before Christmas Eve—the day after I swep' him out o' this—no, the very day itself. See where you'd ha' been! 'Bella, 'Bella, let's drink his health in a pint of cream! It seems too good to be true."

But Arabella was grasping with both hands the shelf which supported the bowls of milk for creaming, and her face was drawn and wretched.

"Don't, Missy!" she exclaimed with tears in her voice. "You wouldn't if you knew how sorry I am. What is he in prison for? What has he been doing?"

"Writing a cheque he had no business to write and getting the money. That's what it was this time. But it isn't the first time; no, don't you believe it."

"I am so sorry," repeated Arabella, covering her eyes.

"But why? What for?"

"For him. I—I thought I loved him."

"You thought you loved him," Missy repeated buoyantly. She was all buoyancy now. "Yes, many a girl has thought that before you, my dear. And them that thought it too long, they didn't come to think they hated him. Not they! They jolly soon knew!"

The other's wet eyes were wide open.

"How is this, Missy? You seem to know all about him. You never told me that before."

"No, I didn't. What was the use when I'd got rid of him—for the time being, anyway? I was very much afraid he'd turn up again, and I was keeping what I knew until he did. I thought it'd be time enough to tell you then; but I'll tell you now if you like. It makes no difference one way or the other, now that our friend's in quod. Very well then, as soon as ever I heard his voice that dark night I knew that I'd heard it before. Never mind where—maybe in England, maybe on the ship, maybe after I landed in Melbourne. You mustn't want to know too much. It's good enough, isn't it, that I knew what sort he was, and that when I'd known him before he was sailing under another name altogether? Yes, I thought that'd knock you! You knew Stanborough, I knew Mowbray, and the police, they've run in a man of the name of Paolo Verini, alias Thomas Stanborough, alias Paul Mowbray. 'A handsome man of foreign appearance,' the Argus says. You may look for yourself. But if that isn't good enough for you I don't know what is."

"It might be someone else for all that," murmured Arabella, shuddering at the thought of the man in prison. "Have you any other reason for making so certain that it is the same?"

"I have. I wouldn't tell you before, but now what does it matter? I've expected him turning up every hour since that night. He swore that he would; and he would have, you may depend, if he hadn't got run in."

Arabella was silent; she felt that also. She had never been able to understand how a man of so firm a purpose as her lover should have made so facile a capitulation to a mere girl like Missy. Presently she asked a question:

"Did he recognise you. Missy?"

"No," replied Missy, after a little hesitation. "No, he did not," she repeated more firmly. "And look you here,'Bella, take my advice and never give him another thought. He was a bad egg, that's what he was; you may thank your stars that he is where he is, as I thank mine."

"I can't help being sorry," sighed Arabella, wiping her eyes with her apron; "but that doesn't make me less thankful to you, Missy. You've saved me, body and soul. I was under a spell, but you broke it. I don't understand it. I can't feel it now. But God knows how I felt it then, and what would have got me but for you! So I can never be thankful enough to you, Missy, and I shall never, never be able to tell you how thankful I am."

"Then never try," said Missy lightly; "only think kindly of me when you find it a hard job. That's all you've got to try to do."

And with a light-hearted laugh and a kiss from the fingers Missy was out of the dairy and above ground in the brilliant noonday sun.

There was no one about in the yard. Missy ............