Olivia

It was the morning after Mr. Bradstone’s elaborate picnic, and the clock was striking twelve as Olivia, with her hat and jacket on, knocked at the door of the squire’s den, as the room in which he kept his guns and fishing-rods, and in which he transacted his business as justice of the peace, was called.

She knocked twice, then, having received no answer, opened the door and entered.

To her surprise she saw her father seated in his well-worn leather chair, bending over the table, his head leaning on his hand. Before him was a goodly—or evil—array of papers, and his face, as he raised it, wore that anxious and troubled expression which Olivia had seen upon it so often of late.

“I beg your pardon, papa,” she said. “I did not want to disturb you, but I knocked twice, and, thinking you were out, ventured in. I want a book for Bessie.”

The squire was an inveterate novel reader, and there was always a goodly stock of popular fiction lying about the den.

“A novel. Yes, my dear,” and he made an attempt at rising; but Olivia went to him quickly and put her hand upon his shoulder.

“No, you shan’t trouble, dear. I can find it. You are busy, I can see.”

“Busy?” he said, in a dull way. “Oh, yes, I am, rather,” and he sighed.

“Is it anything very troublesome, anything I can help you with?” she inquired, as she turned over the pile of yellow-covered volumes. “I can sometimes, you know.”

He shook his head with a mirthless smile.

“I am afraid not, my dear,” he said, cheerlessly. “This is a matter which——” He stopped and gazed at her with a sad, vacant expression. “Have you found a book for Bessie? By the way, speaking of her reminds me. I called upon that strange Mr. Faradeane this morning.”

Olivia bent over the heap of dusty books, and, after a moment’s silence, said:

“Yes, papa; I am glad of that.”

“Are you? Why? Well, there’s not much to be glad of, for he was not at home.”

“He was out riding, perhaps,” she said, with the faintest tinge of disappointment in her voice.

“No, he was in,” said the squire, dryly. “He was in the house, for I saw him at the window as I went up the path.”

Olivia looked round thoughtfully.

“You saw him——”

“At the window. Yes; and he told his servant to say that he was not at home. I must say I was much annoyed. I am not used to rebuffs of that kind, especially from strangers. I was so irritated that I felt inclined to tell the man that I had seen his master, but I thought better of it, and left a card. I think this young fellow is acting in a very extraordinary fashion.”

Olivia seemed to ponder for a moment. “Why, dear?” she asked, in a low voice.

“Why?” repeated the squire, with the nearest approach to impatience he ever permitted himself toward his darling. “Well, first by buying The Dell in the strange way he did, and then shunning all intercourse with his neighbors in the mysterious fashion he adopts. I hate mysteries! In my opinion, there is always something shady and shameful at the bottom of them.”

“Mr. Faradeane does not look as if he had anything to be ashamed of,” she said, in the same low, thoughtful voice.

“No,” assented the squire, impatiently; “that is what puzzles me. I never saw a more gentleman-like man, or one with a more prepossessing face. But his manners and conduct——” He pulled up. “However,” he continued, “if he prefers to live a secluded and isolated life, why that is his business, not mine. I shall not call again, of course.”

“No,” said Olivia; “yet Bertie likes him.”

“Likes him? How do you know that? Oh, because he spoke up for him yesterday. I don’t know why you should say that he ‘likes’ him.”

“I watched Bertie’s face,” said Olivia, quietly.

The squire knitted his brows.

“It was very unfortunate, his turning up as he did yesterday. And those gypsies, too. It was very annoying for Mr. Bradstone. Did you enjoy the picnic, Olivia?”

“Yes,” she replied, indifferently, and turned to the books again.

“It was an admirable luncheon.” he said, watching her, with the deep lines graving themselves in his forehead; “admirable. Mr. Bradstone must have spared no expense or trouble. He did his very best to make it a success.”

“Oh, yes,” she assented, coldly; “I think it was a success. Annie and Mary enjoyed themselves.”

“Yes,” he said, leaning his head on his hand, and watching her with the same troubled, anxious, wistful gaze. “Yes. Was he very attentive to them? I didn’t notice. It would be a very good match for one of them. He is a very rich man, Olivia.”

“Is he?” she said, with supreme indifference. “I think this will do for Bessie; I remember reading it. It is full of incident, and yet the characters talk naturally——”

“Bartley Bradstone is very rich,” said the squire, ignoring her criticism of the novel. “He would be a good match for most girls. If he were in London he would be snapped up at once.”

“I dare say,” said Olivia, turning the leaves of the book carelessly.

“Yes,” said the squire, thoughtfully, “money is everything nowadays. It is all that any one thinks of, and Bartley Bradstone has it in abundance.”

“Is it all any one thinks of?” said Olivia. “We don’t think of it much, dear; but I suppose that’s because we have enough of it,” and she smiled with blissful serenity.

The squire shifted in his seat and smiled, but, oh, how uneasily!

“Yes, yes, I dare say,” he said, “and Bradstone is a good fellow in spite of his money.”

“Yes?” said Olivia. “I think I will go now, papa; Bessie will be waiting for me,” and, with a nod and a loving smile, she left the room.

The squire looked after her with the same troubled, wistful gaze, then with a deep sigh returned to the heap of papers upon the table.

Olivia, with the book she had selected, and a basket of hothouse flowers, walked down to the lodge.

At the little wicket gate stood Alford, Bessie’s father, smoking a pipe, which he instantly caused to disappear as he touched his hat to Olivia.

“Good-morning, Alford!” she said. “How is Bessie this morning? Better, I hope.”

“Yes, Miss Olivia, much better. She be more like her old self again this morning—thanks to you, miss, and Mr. Faradeane. She says to me last night that it was worth while being knocked out of the cart to get all the kindness she have had from you and him, miss. Of course, we know how good-hearted you be, miss, as we’re used to it; but we didn’t expect it from a perfect stranger, so to speak. If Bessie had been his own kith and kin he couldn’t have been more kind; and I says, I do, miss, that to set all these here stories again such a thorough, kind-hearted gentleman—ah, and true, brave-handed man, miss—is a crying shame.”

“They speak ill of him! Who?” asked Olivia.

Alford looked rather embarrassed, as if he had said more than he had intended.

“Oh, miss, you know what Hawkwood folks be! They give every stranger a bad name if they don’t know his mother and his father, and all he’s been and what he is. And as they don’t know nothing about Mr. Faradeane, why, they just blackguard him, that’s all. I was in the George last night—I just looked in for a drop o’ brandy for Bessie, in case she wanted it,” he put in hurriedly and with a little cough, “and I heard some of ’em a-talkin’ nonsense about him; but I set ’em down, I did, miss, and pretty smartly. Harry Tucker says I cracked his skull; but don’t you believe that, miss, it’s impossible—it’s too thick.”

Olivia could scarcely repress a smile at this naïve statement.

“I’m afraid you will get into trouble, Alford,” she said, with her gentle gravity.

“Oh, no, miss,” he responded, cheerfully, “don’t you be afraid of me. But if it meant six months in jail I’d stand for the gentleman as saved my Bessie.”

“And I think you’re right,” said Olivia, with a sudden warmth which astonished Alford, and made her blush a moment afterward. “I—I mean that of course it is absurd to suppose that because Mr. Faradeane is a stranger he must necessarily be disreputable—and—and—unworthy. Why, Alford, a wicked man would never have risked his limbs for Bessie, as Mr. Faradeane did.”

“Do not be too sure of that, Miss Vanley,” said a voice, and Olivia, starting, turned and saw the man she had been defending. He had come round the bend by the thick garden hedge, unperceived by either Alford or herself.

Olivia stood with her hands on the gate, white and red by turns, and Alford coughed and shuffled in awkward confusion.

Mr. Faradeane regarded them with a faint smile that was more sad than mirthful.

“As a rule, listeners hear anything but good of themselves, Miss Vanley,” he said, raising his hat. “This is the exception. Thank you for your defense, but I fear that it is not, as the lawyers would say, a sound one.”

Olivia fought down her strange shyness—strange because it had never until now attacked her in the presence of any man.

“Was it not?” she said, in a low voice. “I thought it was a very reasonable proposition.”

He shook his head, still with the same grave smile.

“Some of the worst men have been conspicuous by their courage as well as their crimes. There was a convict the other day who stood up on behalf of a warder who had been attacked by the rest of the gang, some fifteen in number. When they came to inquire into the man’s antecedents they found that he, who had defended his keeper at the risk of his own life, had been sentenced to penal servitude for a particularly bad case of manslaughter. That’s a modern instance. Ancient history is full of examples of bad men who have exhibited, not once, but many times, extraordinary courage—have even done braver things than stopping a small pony,” and he smiled.

“Ah!” grunted Alford, “I thought it was coming to that. Mr. Faradeane always tries to make out as it was nothing at all; and look at his forehead,” and he pointed to the scar.

Olivia raised her eyes to it, and met his grave, sad, half-smiling gaze, beneath which her own drooped instantly.

“I am afraid you won’t succeed in persuading me that I am even a second-rate hero, Alford,” he said. “How is Bessie this morning?”

Alford told him that she was much better, and Mr. Faradeane turned as if to go, when a sudden impulse seized Olivia, and, falteringly, she said:

“I—I am so sorry for what occurred yesterday at the picnic, Mr. Faradeane.”

He stopped and looked at her absently for a moment, as if the incident had escaped his memory; then he said:

“Pray don’t give it a moment’s thought or regret. Mr. Bradstone’s indignation was very natural. Trespassers are a nuisance at any time; but at a picnic they are intolerable. I have written to Mr. Bradstone apologizing for my intrusion, and assuring him that ‘it shan’t occur again.’ I hope you had a pleasant day.”

“Very,” said Olivia; and he turned to go again, when she said: “My father called on you this morning. He was sorry to find you were out.”

He looked down at the path in grave silence for a moment; then he said, as he raised his eyes to hers:

“Will you please thank Mr. Vanley for his courtesy. I live a very solitary and secluded life, Miss Vanley.”

“Does that mean that you decline his acquaintance?” asked Olivia, in her straightforward way.

His brow furrowed with a wistful, troubled frown.

“I am afraid it does,” he said. “I am what is called a recluse, a misanthrope——”

“What is called,” said Olivia, quietly; “a misanthrope who stops runaway ponies, and takes the trouble to inquire daily after a sick girl! Isn’t that a little inconsistent?”

He smiled.

“You are rather hard upon me,” he said, in a low voice. He paused. “I am sorry I did not see Mr. Vanley this morning; but consider—what sympathy, what friendship could exist between Harold Faradeane of The Dell and the Squire of Hawkwood?”

Olivia flushed.

“Do you think my father values a man by the size of the house he inhabits, Mr. Faradeane?”

“I think him a high-minded English gentleman,” he responded, with grave earnestness, “but between a man in his position and a man in mine there is a vast difference.”

Olivia bit her lip, and turned aside with a slight bow.

“Will you give these to Bessie, Alford?” she said, as if she had finished with Mr. Faradeane.

He stood with his dark, sad eyes fixed on the ground; then he approached her.

“I have offended you,” in a low, almost an appealing voice.

Olivia turned to him with lowered lids.

“Oh, no.”

“Your words say ‘No,’ but your tone says ‘Yes,’” he said.

Olivia tried to laugh.

“Well, you must admit that one may be rather displeased at having one’s overtures of friendship declined, however politely,” she said.

He dug a stone out of the path with his stick; then he looked up at her.

“You have put the case candidly; but think, Miss Vanley—your father knows nothing of me. He has paid me the attention of a call, because I was so fortunate as to be of slight service to one of his servants. Am I to take advantage of such an accident? He knows nothing of me, remember.”

“My father is perfectly free to choose his friends,” she retorted. “He would have called on you, even if this accident of Bessie’s had not occurred.”

He struck the pebble he had dug out, and sighed.

“Do not tempt me,” he murmured, in so low a voice that Olivia did not hear him.

“What did you say?” she asked.

He fixed his dark eyes on hers.

“Miss Vanley,” he said, the lines of his forehead deepening, as if he were going through a mental struggle, “I came to this place resolved to isolate myself, separate myself, from the society of my fellowmen. My reasons are of no consequence in the argument. I came here to bury myself. Chance, accident, Providence, as some would call it, has thrown me into intercourse with my neighbors.”

“Providence,” murmured Olivia.

He inclined his head.

“Your father has come to me and extended the right hand of fellowship——”

“He was not the first; there was Bertie—I mean Lord Granville,” put in Olivia, softly. “You consented to know him.”

“The Cherub?” he said. Then, as Olivia looked up with a start, he colored. “He is called the Cherub, is he not?”

“Yes,” she said, perplexedly. “I did not know you knew that.”

He nodded.

“Yes, I have made the acquaintance of Lord Granville. His sobriquet is pretty well known, I think.”

“Every one likes Bertie,” she said.

He glanced at her inquiringly, as he assented:

“Yes, and there must be a great deal of good in the man or woman whom everybody likes. Speaking of the Cherub, here comes the flutter of his wings,” he added, as Bertie’s voice was heard in the lane.

“There is some one with him. It is my aunt,” said Olivia, as Miss Amelia’s falsetto was heard joining with Bertie’s. The next moment they came around the corner.

“Oh, here is Olivia!” said Miss Amelia. Then she pulled up short, with a little, affected start at sight of the tall, handsome man.

Bertie came forward with his usual eagerness.

“We have been looking for you, Olivia,” he said, his eyes dwelling on her with the light that always shone in them. “And I told Miss Amelia this would turn out a sure find. Good-morning, Faradeane!”

Miss Amelia gave another start, and coughed nervously.

“This is my aunt—Miss Vanley!” said Olivia. “This is Mr. Faradeane, aunt.”

Miss Amelia bent her head.

“Delighted, I’m sure!” she simpered in the conciliatory voice which old ladies use to dogs and dangerous characters. “Quite a—a—pleasant surprise.”

Mr. Faradeane bowed, with the suspicion of a smile flickering under his mustache.

“I’m sure we are all very much indebted to Mr. Faradeane for his heroic rescue of Bessie Alford, very much so—ahem!” and she coughed again. “I hope it will prove a lesson to her. All these things, if properly viewed, are sent for our good.”

“Mr. Faradeane was certainly sent for Bessie’s, on this occasion,” said Olivia, strangely irritated by her aunt’s half-suspicious, half-irritating manner.

Bertie, with his usual promptitude, cut in to set matters on an easier footing.

“I’m glad to hear Bessie’s better. I called as I was going up to the house. And now, Olivia, I’ll bet you two to one in Dent’s best that you don’t guess what Miss Amelia wants me to do.”

“May I have three tries?” said Olivia, with a smile.

“Something good and laudable, I am sure,” said Faradeane.

Miss Amelia’s gaze softened, and she bridled and smiled.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Faradeane,” she simpered.

“Is it to subscribe to the Mothers’ Sewing Club?” said Olivia.

“No,” said Bertie.

“To teach in the Sunday-school. No?” as Bertie shook his head. “To give the pug or the canary a dose of medicine?”

“No!” he cried, triumphantly. “You’ve lost. I take large nines,” and he held out his tiny fist. “Miss Amelia’s modest request is that I should give a reading at the forthcoming village entertainment.”

Olivia laughed.

“I’d forgotten the entertainment,” she said.

“My dear Olivia,” murmured Miss Amelia, solemnly, “you should never be weary of doing good.”

“I do too little to be anything like weary,” said Olivia. “Of course you have consented, Bertie?”

He made a gesture of mock horror.

“I!” he exclaimed. “Great goodness! Fancy me attempting to recite! Why, I should have stage fright, and fall in a fit off the platform!” and he laughed. “Now, Faradeane here is a first-class amateur actor, and used to all this kind of thing——” He pulled up short, warned by Faradeane’s grave, steady gaze, and Olivia’s look of astonishment. “That is, I should think so,” said poor Bertie. “He looks like it, while I——Oh! the mere thought of facing a room full of people sends cold shivers through me.”

He had not got out of it so badly after all, and, quite unwittingly, Miss Amelia helped.

“Really,” she simpered, surveying the handsome face, with its grave smile, “really, I think Bertie is right, and that Mr. Faradeane has—er—that kind of face, and I am sure he will not refuse to help us in our effort to amuse our humbler neighbors.”

“And air our own accomplishments,” added Olivia, with a smile.

“My dear Olivia——” began Miss Amelia, with her severest air; but Bertie cut in again.

“I think you’d better, Faradeane,” he said; “that is, if you can, and I think you have got the reciter’s face. Something awfully tragic, you know.”

“Such as ‘The Little Vulgar Boy,’ or ‘The Jackdaw of Rheims,’” murmured Miss Amelia, coaxingly. “Some people insist that they are too frivolous; but I maintain, and always shall maintain, that we may draw a lesson from even the most trivial stories.”

“‘The Little Vulgar Boy,’ for instance, aunt. What is the lesson?”

“Not to put any trust in strangers,” said Mr. Faradeane, quietly, and with the same flickering smile.

Olivia colored, Bertie looked embarrassed, and Miss Amelia laughed awkwardly.

“Oh, come,” said Bertie; “I’m sure you will give them something with a moral tagged to it. Better say yes, Faradeane.”

There was silence for a moment or two.

“Perhaps I’d better state that the proceeds of the entertainment will be devoted to the funds of the Muffin and Crumpet Society,” said Miss Amelia, with due solemnity.

Mr. Faradeane looked up gravely.

“That decides it,” he said. “I shall be very pleased to place my poor services at the disposal of so worthy a cause.”

“You see, Olivia!” exclaimed Miss Amelia. “You are always laughing at the society. Now, Mr. Faradeane, whose opinion is, I am sure, of the greatest value, testifies to its great usefulness.”

“Any cause advocated by Miss Vanley,” he said, with a bow, “must necessarily be a laudable and deserving one.”

Miss Amelia simpered and bridled with pleasure, and Olivia turned to hide a smile.

“I am going up to see Bessie,” she said. “Will you come with me, aunt?” and she bowed to Faradeane and nodded smilingly at Bertie.

“Good-morning, Mr. Faradeane,” said Miss Amelia, giving him her hand graciously. “You will not forget. The twenty-ninth, at the schoolroom. I will send you a programme. Let me see; I think I shall put you between the vicar’s concertina and Miss Browne’s ‘Three Little Pigs.’”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bertie, aghast.

“I understand, Miss Vanley,” said Mr. Faradeane, with perfect gravity; and, linking his arm in Bertie’s, he raised his hat and walked away.

For some few moments the two men did not speak; then Faradeane said:

“You are thinking that I am a weak-minded kind of idiot, eh, Cherub?”

Bertie gave a little start.

“I——No, I wasn’t thinking about you, old fellow,” he replied. “I was thinking of Olivia. How beautiful she looked this morning!”

“Yes,” assented Faradeane, succinctly.

“I think her lovelier and sweeter every time I see her,” continued Bertie, with a sigh. Then he pulled himself together. “But I say, fancy finding her and you chatting together like old friends!”

“Yes, and after my solemn declaration the other day that nothing should induce me to know her or any one else,” retorted Faradeane. “But men propose and the gods dispose. Only this morning I refused to see her father, and now——”

“I’m glad, awfully glad,” said Bertie, eagerly. “I can’t tell you how delighted I was to see you with her. And I tell you what, old fellow: you may consider yourself highly honored. It isn’t every one Miss Olivia is free and—and pleasant with at starting. As a rule, people think her stiff and—and—cold, don’t you know, till they know more of her.”

Faradeane nodded, with his dark eyes bent on the ground.

“Yes, she could be stiff and reserved,” he said, more to himself than to Bertie.

“Rather! They all call her proud, and so she is, in a right way. God bless her! She is everything that is right to me. And you have promised to spout for them, old fellow! I’m awfully glad of that, too.”

“Yes,” said Faradeane, grimly. “The man who falls into the river may just as well take a bath; he couldn’t be wetter. So go all my resolutions to the winds!” he added, with a kind of desperation. “But mind, Bertie, our compact remains in full force. I am still the Harold Faradeane whose acquaintance you made the other day for the first time! Remember, you do not know, cannot guess, how much depends on your caution.”

“I know. I’m awfully sorry I made that slip,” said Bertie, penitently. “But it is so hard to talk as if you and I were strangers until the other day.”

“Hard as it is, you will have to do it, Cherub,” responded Faradeane, gravely.

“And I—I cannot help you—you will tell me nothing?” said Bertie, gently.

“You cannot help me; and I can tell you nothing,” replied Faradeane.

As he spoke they reached the gate of The Dell, and saw a woman coming down the path from the cottage. She held something closely wrapped in her thin shawl, from which proceeded the unmistakable wail of a sick child.

Faradeane smiled grimly.

“The first time the gate has been unlocked, and the great disturber of man’s peace finds entrance instantly,” he said.

“Why, it’s the gypsy who told our fortunes yesterday at the picnic, you know,” said Bertie.

The anxious, black eyes flashed from face to face, and she dropped a curtsey.

“Will you help a poor woman in distress, kind gentlemen?” she said.

“Oh, come, my good woman,” said Bertie, “your memory is a short one. Why, you made enough yesterday to keep the wolf from the door for some days.”

The woman looked at him keenly, but not angrily.

“I didn’t ask for money for myself,” she said; “it’s my child—my little girl,” and she drew the shawl a few inches from the child’s face.

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Bertie, in quite a different voice.

Faradeane leaned against the gate, and looked on with an absent air of preoccupation.

“She’s ill, sir,” replied the gypsy. “She was took ill yesterday. I don’t know what ails her. It’s my only one, kind gentlemen, and——” She stopped and looked at Faradeane. “Ah! it’s hard to understand a mother’s feelings.”

“I dare say,” said Bertie, gently. “But why do you keep her out in the open air? The day is chilly, and you earned plenty of money yesterday to find shelter for her.”

The gypsy shook her head slowly.

“That’s gone, sir,” she said, with that quiet resignation which women acquire, Heaven help them!

“I see,” said Bertie. “Your husband—the man who was with you——”

She nodded, and raised her hand to her lips with the action of drinking.

“Yes, gentlemen, he’s my husband, and the money’s gone where it always goes. If he’d only left me enough to buy a blanket or a thick shawl for her; but——”

She stopped and rocked the child, crooning to it soothingly.

Bertie put his hand in his pocket, then uttered an exclamation of disappointment.

“By Jove! I’ve left my purse in my other coat. Faradeane, lend me——”

Faradeane straightened himself and came forward.

“Let me look at the child,” he said, in his low, musical voice.

The woman looked up at him for an instant with the mother’s searching glance; then, reading something in his eyes that reassured her, threw the shawl off the child’s face and turned it toward him.

It was a poor, thin little mite, whose face should have been white, but was flushed and burning.

Faradeane took it from her.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, gently, as she clung to it a little.

“Are you a doctor, gentleman?” she asked, looking up at Faradeane, eagerly.

“No, no,” said Bertie. “But you can rely on what he says. What is it, Faradeane?” he asked, in a lower voice.

Faradeane looked at the child attentively.

“Fever,” he said. “The child has been exposed to this charming English spring of ours. Poor mite!”

The woman’s dark eyes grew moist, and her hands clasped together with a spasmodic action.

“Is—is it going to die, gentleman?” she asked, huskily. “It’s—it’s the only one I’ve got left, and—and, bein’ a girl, I’ve got fond of it like,” she added, apologetically.

“I hope it won’t die,” he said, gently, “but it is very bad. This thin shawl—wait a moment,” and he handed the child back to her.

She pressed it to her bosom with a choking sob, and bent over it speechlessly.

Faradeane came out of the cottage again presently with a traveling wrap of gray fox and sable; a rare and costly fur even for a man of wealth—a wrap which many a lady would have coveted with the fiercest longing.

As he was wrapping this round the child, touching it as gently as he had done poor Bessie, Bertie laid his hand upon his arm.

“Isn’t that rather extravagant, old fellow?” he said, in a voice too low for the woman to hear. “A blanket would have served the purpose, besides, the father will requisition that the moment he sees it.”

Faradeane shrugged his shoulders.

“It will keep the little one warm till it gets to the hospital. That’s where you’re to send it.” He took out his pocketbook, and, tearing out a sheet, wrote a few lines on it. “Take the child on to the doctor’s at Wainford, and do as he tells you. He knows me; he is the doctor who is attending Bessie Alford,” he looked round, to explain to Bertie. “Tell him that I will pay what the hospital people demand, and here is some money to go on with. Keep it from your husband—if you can,” he added, grimly.

The woman took the paper and the money, and looked from the child, whose wailing seemed already less despairing, to the costly rug, and, lastly, up at the handsome face and the sad eyes regarding her with a grave pity.

Her black eyes filled, her lips twitched, but for a moment she seemed speechless; then she looked at Bertie appealingly.

“I—I can’t tell him,” she said, piteously. “If it was for myself, I could thank him; but it is for the child, and—and I don’t know; but in my heart,” and she pressed the child to her with a fierce energy, “but I feel it in my heart.”

“That’s all right,” said Faradeane, nodding to her, soothingly. “Oh, wait; I must give the doctor your name. What is it?” and he took the paper from her.

“Liz Lee,” she said, with a little catch in her breath.

He filled it in instantly, and returned the paper to her.

She looked at Bertie.

“Ask him if he’ll tell me his,” she said, addressing Bertie again instead of Faradeane, as if she could not trust herself to speak to him directly.

“Faradeane,” said Bertie; “go and do as my friend tells you.”

The woman nodded, and, with a long, steady look at Faradeane, turned down the path and out of the gate.

Bertie turned to Faradeane.

“That was kind of you, old fellow,” he said. “Just like you, too—so thoughtful and—and considerate.”

Faradeane seemed to wake up, as if from a reverie.

“My dear Cherub,” he said, banteringly, “why will you try and throw a glamour over a simple bit of charity which really costs me nothing?”

“Yes,” said Bertie, “that’s true; it costs you nothing to speak and look so that the woman was too moved to speak and look at you. And you tell me that you have committed a wrong which ought to shut you out of society,” he burst out.

Faradeane’s head drooped, and, with a half-suppressed sigh, he laid his hand on Bertie’s shoulder.

“Hush!” he said. “Let us go in now and get some lunch.”

The woman moved rapidly, and yet carefully, so as not to disturb the now sleeping child, down the lane in the direction of Wainford.

She had gone about a couple of hundred yards when the man who had been with her at the picnic came along the road.

His face was flushed, and his gait distinguished by that unsteadiness which is displayed by the individual who is just on the brink of the drunkard’s seventh heaven.

She shrank back and looked round, as if with the idea of avoiding him, but his sharp, black eyes—sharp even when dim with drink—saw her, and he came across the road.

“Hallo, Liz,” he said, thickly, “whadger done? Wher’yer been? Is that the kid? Why——” He stopped short, and laid a hot hand upon the fur. “Where’d yer lift this?”

“I didn’t lift it, Seth,” she replied. “It was lent to me by a gentleman. Have you got any money left, Seth? I want it for Lizzie; she’s that ill,” she added, with the cunning of her kind, knowing well that if she didn’t ask money of him he would of her.

“Money! no,” he replied, with an oath. “It’s gone, every copper of it. Why didn’t you get some from the solt as gave you this? It’s a stunner!” he went on, stroking the fur lovingly, his eyes growing sharp and covetous. “This ’ere’s worth a mint o’ money—two or three pound, most like. Give it to me, Liz, and I’ll sell it to the landlord o’ the George.”

“No, no, not this, Seth. It was given for Lizzie. Look how warm she is——”

“Hang the kid!” he retorted, harshly; “wrap it in a sack—anything. What! Do you mean as you’d waste a valuable thing like this on a brat?”

“Leave it alone,” she said, her voice changing from the pleading to the fierce. “Let go of it, Seth. You shan’t have it!” and her spare hand closed on it with the clutch—well, the clutch of a mother defending her child.

The man snarled and snatched at the fur, and in doing so turned up a corner and showed the lining of crimson silk. There was something embroidered on it in gold thread, and he bent down to look at it.

The design, whatever it was, had been partly picked out or cut away; but a portion of a crest and an initial still remained, and Seth’s eyes were glued to it for a moment.

Then, in a changed voice, he said:

“Who gave you this, Liz?”

“I don’t know,” she panted. “Let it go, Seth. You shan’t have it, if I die for it. Let me go with the child.”

“Hold your noise,” he said, between his teeth, and glancing round. “Who wants it? You may go to the devil, and the kid with you, for what I care. Just let me know where you got this skin, that’s all.”

“I got it from the gent as lives in the cottage in the hollow, Seth,” she said, drawing the fur from his hand. “He was good to me, he was——”

“He gave you money!” he said, sharply.

“No, no money,” she replied, with ready falsehood; “nothing but the rug. But it wasn’t that; it was the way he spoke and handled poor Lizzie. And he says she’s bad, Seth! And I’ll lose her—yes, I’ll lose her like the rest.” Her voice broke. “Let me go!”

“Stop your sniveling!” he snarled, and as he spoke he tore out the corner of the lining which bore the partly-erased coat-of-arms.

“There you are,” he said. “That’s all I want. Be off with you.”