There is unusual stir and life in the Warburton Mansion, for Alan Warburton has returned, as suddenly and strangely as he went away.

He has made Mrs. French and Winnie such explanations as he could, and has promised them one more full and complete when he shall be able, himself, to understand, in all its details, the mystery which surrounds him.

After listening to the little that Alan has to tell--of course that part of his story which concerns Leslie is entirely ignored, as being another's secret rather than his--Mrs. French and Winnie are more than ever mystified, and they hold a long consultation in their private sitting-room.

Acting upon Alan's suggestion--he refuses to issue an order--Mrs. French has bidden the servants throw open the closed drawing-rooms, and give to the house a more cheerful aspect.

Wonderingly, the servants go about their task, and at noon all is done.

Warburton Place stands open to the sunlight, a cheerful, tasteful, luxurious home once more.

"I don't see what it's all about," Winnie French says petulantly. "One would think Alan were giving himself an ovation."

They lunched together, Alan, Mrs. French and Winnie. It was a silent meal, and very unsatisfactory to Alan. When they rose from the table, Mrs. French desired a few words with him, and Winnie favored him with a chilling salute and withdrew.

When she had gone, Mrs. French came straight to the point. She was a serious, practical woman, and she wasted no words.

They had discussed the situation, her daughter and herself, and they had decided. Winnie was feeling more and more the embarra.s.sment of their present position. They had complied with the wishes expressed in Leslie's farewell note, as well as by himself and Mr. Follingsbee. But this strangeness and air of mystery by which they were surrounded was wearing upon Winnie. She went out so seldom, and she grieved and pined for Leslie and the little one so constantly, that Mrs. French had decided to send her away.

She had talked of this before, but Winnie had been reluctant to go.

To-day, however, she had admitted that she wished to go; that she needed and must have the change.

It was not their intention to withdraw their confidence from Leslie, or from him, or to desert their friends. Mrs. French would stay at her post, but Winnie, for a time at least, should go away. Her relatives in the country were anxious to receive her, and Winnie was ready and impatient to set out.

And what could Alan say? While his heart rebelled against this decision, his reason endorsed it, and his pride held all protestation in check.

He offered a few courteous commonplaces in a constrained and embarra.s.sed manner.

He was aware that their unhappy complications must place himself and his sister-in-law in an unfavorable light. He realized that they had already overtaxed the friendship and endurance of Mrs. French and her daughter.

In his present situation, he dared not remonstrate against this decision; he was already too deeply their debtor. He should regret the departure of Miss French, and he should be deeply grateful to Mrs.

French for the sacrifice she must make in remaining.

All the same, he felt an inward pang as he left Mrs. French, and went slowly down to the drawing-room. Winnie had gone in that direction, and he was now in search of her, for, in spite of her scorn and his own pride, he felt that he must speak with her once more before she went away. She had decided to go this day, the day of his home-coming. That meant simply that she was leaving because of him.

Winnie was seated in a cavernous chair, looking extremely comfortable, and, apparently, occupied with a late magazine. She glanced up as Alan entered, then hastily resumed her reading.

Seeing her so deeply absorbed, he crossed the room, and looked out upon the street for a moment, then slowly turned his back upon the window and began a steady march up and down the drawing-room, keeping to the end farthest from that occupied by Winnie, and casting upon her, when his march brought her within view, long, earnest glances.

That she was wilfully feigning unconsciousness of his presence, he felt a.s.sured. That she should finally recognize that presence, he was obstinately determined.

But Winnie is not as composed as she seems, and his steady march up and down becomes very irritating. Lowering her book suddenly, she turns sharply in her chair.

"Mr. Warburton, allow me to mention that your boots creak," she says tartly.

"I beg your pardon, Winnie."

"No, you do not! I can't see why you must needs choose this room for your tramping, when all the house is quite at your disposal."

Alan stops and stands directly before her.

"I came, Winnie, because you were here," he says gently.

"Well," taking up her book and turning her shoulder towards him, "if you can't make yourself less disagreeable, I shall leave, presently, because _you_ are here."

Paying no heed to her petulant words, he draws forward a chair and seats himself before her.

"Winnie," he says gravely, "what is this that I hear from your mother: you wish to leave Warburton Place?"

"I intend to leave Warburton Place."

"Why, Winnie?"

"Pray don't make my name the introduction or climax to all your sentences, Mr. Warburton; I quite comprehend that you are addressing me.

Why do I leave Warburton Place? Because I have staid long enough. I have staid on, for Leslie's sake, until I'm discouraged with waiting." There is a flush upon her cheeks and a hysterical quiver in her voice. "I have remained because it was _her_ home, and at _her_ request. Now that her absence makes you master here, I will stay no longer. It was you who drove her away with your base, false suspicions. I will never forgive you; I will never--"

There is a sound behind her. She has risen to her feet, and she sees that Alan is not heeding her words; his eyes are turned toward the door; they light up strangely, and as he springs forward, Winnie hastily turns.

Standing in the doorway, pale and careworn but slightly smiling, is Leslie Warburton, and she holds little Daisy tightly clasped in her arms; Daisy Warburton surely, though so pallid, and clad in rags!

As Alan springs forward, she holds out the child.

"Alan, I have kept my word," she says gently, wearily; "I have brought back little Daisy."

It is the end of her wonderful endurance. As Alan s.n.a.t.c.hes the child to his breast, she sinks forward and again, as on that last day of her presence here, she lies senseless at his feet.

But now his looks are not cold; he does not call a servant; but turning swiftly he puts the child in Winnie's arms, and kneels beside Leslie.

As he kneels, he notes the presence of a man in sombre attire, and behind him, the peering face of a servant.

"Call Mrs. French," he says, chafing the lifeless hands. "Bring restoratives--quick!"

And he lifts her tenderly, and carries her to a divan.

Then for a time all is confusion. There is talking, laughing, crying; Mrs. French is here, and Millie, and presently every other servant of the household.

For a moment, Winnie seems about to drop her clinging burden. Then suddenly her face lights up; she clasps Daisy closer, and drawing near, she watches those who minister to the unconscious one.

Leslie revives slowly and looks about her, making a weak effort to rise.

"Be quiet," says the stranger in the priestly garments, who has "kept his head" while all the others seem dazed; "be quiet, madam. Let me explain to your friends."

As he speaks, Alan stoops over Winnie, and kisses the little one tenderly, but he does not offer to take her from Winnie's clasp. He turns instead and bends over Leslie.

"Obey him, Leslie," he says softly. "We will tell you how glad we are by and by."

She looks wonderingly into his face, then closes her eyes wearily.

"He can tell you," she whispers; "I--I cannot."

And then there is silence, while Alan, in compliance with a hint from the seeming Priest, motions the servants out of the room, all but Millie. Daisy has seized her hand and clings to it obstinately.