'You've taught them London manners, lad,' said Mark Clay, looking at his son quizzically, as he noticed how no man, woman, or child passed the young master without some greeting.
George laughed. 'I couldn't stand their rough ways,' he admitted.
'Well, I've nought against it, and I see you've made some other alterations for their benefit; but I've nought against that either. You've done well by the mill and by me, and I'm proud of you, and proud of my girl, for she's got a shrewd business head, too, it seems.'
'Yes; I couldn't have done it without her. She is so quick, and seems to know the right thing by instinct,' said George.
'That's the woman's way. It's wonderful how they'll see things we can't. Your mother's the same,' replied Mark Clay.
And George made no comment on this change of front, though he remembered the times without number that his blood had boiled when the millionaire had spoken contemptuously of his wife, and told her that she did not know what she was talking about.
It is two years later, and a motor-car drove up to a beautiful house that stood on the place that Balmoral formerly occupied. Out of the motor stepped a young man with a good-humoured, freckled face, very like Horatia, whom he handed out, and who was now a very nice-looking girl of seventeen.
'We've come to your house-warming, Sarah,' she cried. 'And, oh, what a beautiful house! It's almost as good as the last one. And you've got a marble staircase and all. Why, it's exactly like the other!' she cried.
Sarah shook her head. 'It's not so big or so grand; but we tried to make it like the last to please father and mother. Poor mother was always talking of her marble staircase, so that's exactly copied, and so is the parquetry flooring, and her rooms are as like as we could make them; but we have no royal apartments for you this time,' she said.