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started. It was like a transformation-the sudden putting on of a wolf's fangs in the lamb, of an eagle's beak and claws in the dove. Well, I'm sure! What next, I should like to know? I am not mistress in my own house, I suppose? I am not the owner? You are a bad-tempered and impertinent girl, that is what you are; but you always were, so I suppose I must put up with it. But don't let me have any more of your insolence, for I cannot bear it; and so I tell you! And perhaps you will be so very condescending as to ring the bell for the lamp, if it is not asking too much of you!"

The words were aggravating and harsh enough; and the voice was no softer than the words; but by that certain subtle something in her manner which tells of defeat, even when a brave front is kept, Augusta knew that her mother had been dominated and that for the next few hours there would be no more active insult.

The day had been so full of emotion, of distress, of false security and real danger, of regret and excitement generally, that the naturally calm nerves and quiet self-command of the widow had broken under the strain and she found herself unable to bear the old woman's

acrid humour with her usual serenity. Her mother recognized the strain also, and was wise enough not to hang on it more than she could help, so that the next few hours did, as Augusta expected, pass in comparative quietness. The little fellow sat in his mother's lap amused by a book of pictures, either not speaking at all or speaking below his breath; but he was languid and very feverish, and Augusta had some difficulty in keeping him from being fretful-which would have drawn down on him the wrath of his grandmother, always so ready to be drawn down on his poor little sunny head!

Later in the evening however, he seemed to grow so much worse that when Augusta came from putting him to bed she said with a white face:

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"Tony seems very ill to-night, mamma; will you let me send for Dr. Quigley?"

"What has the child got?" snapped the old woman. "He is always ill, or something!"

"I do not know, but he is feverish and certainly very much out of sorts. His little hands are burning and his face is as hot as fire," answered Tony's mother, trembling.

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Oh, it is nothing! You make such a fuss about him! It is only a feverish cold that he

has. Give him a little sweet spirits-of-nitre and wrap him up well. You would take him out the other day when I told you not, and warned you; so now you are punished for your obstinacy, as I said you would be."

Mrs. Morshead gave her shawl the wellknown twitch when she said this, and seemed prepared for a quarrel.

"That was ten days ago. He took no cold then, and this is not a feverish cold," said Augusta firmly. "I think Dr. Quigley ought to be sent for," she repeated.

"You are not over thoughtful for that poor man, nor for any one else-sending out on such a night as this," said Mrs. Morshead.

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'May I ask John to go?" repeated Augusta. "I don't believe there's the smallest occasion," answered the old woman. "You frighten yourself for nothing at all about that child. If his finger aches you think he is going to die, and it is the doctor here and the doctor there; such nonsense!"

"If I may not send John I must go myself," said Augusta with her well-known quiet tenacity; "but I want to stay with my boy."

"Oh! have your own way, for goodness' sake, and don't worry me any more!" said Mrs. Morshead angrily. "Send for Dr. Quigley, or

a dozen doctors if you like—send for Dr. Mann, from Lingston, now at once if you choose--but for mercy's sake do let me have a little peace! I am sick to death of all this noise and confusion. Of all the worrying, troublesome girls I ever met in my life, Augusta, you are the worst; and do leave me in peace!

So the doctor was sent for, and when he came he would not give a decided opinion. "It is fever," he said.

But whether it would turn out to be measles, scarlet-fever, or something else, neither he nor any one else could tell at this early stage. All that the mother knew was, that her little boy was ill and that she must stand between him and death-if she could.

CHAPTER III.

TURNING THE KNIFE.

IT would not have been the Pennefathers if they had not sent over to Jack in exile all the news which they could scrape together. Still less would it have been they if they had not widened all the borders and deepened all the lines, so that everything should be presented in such vivid colours as would "amuse the poor old chap" and give him a good grip on things as they were at the old place. And among the rest they told him all about Valentine Cowley's shameful and outrageous conduct in "following up" Stella Branscombe; though why shameful and outrageous they forgot to explain. And then they launched out into denunciations of Stella's horrible "sneakiness in allowing herself to be followed up at all, and her sinful humbug in bringing Val on as she did while