ed on all points, and she insisted
on a ceremonious christening. The countess-dowager would come over for
it, and did so; Lord Hartledon could not be discourteous enough to deny
this; Lord and Lady Kirton came from Ireland; and for the first time
since their marriage they found themselves entertaining guests. Lord
Hartledon had made a faint opposition, but Maude had her own way. The
countess-dowager was furiously indignant when she heard of the intended
sponsors--its father and mother, and that cynical wretch, Thomas Carr!
Val played the hospitable host; but there was a shadow on his face that
his wife did not fail to see.

It was the evening before the christening, and a very snowy evening
too. Val was dressing for dinner, and Maude, herself ready, sat by him,
her baby on her knee. The child was attired for the first time in a
splendidly-worked robe with looped-up sleeves; and she had brought it
in to challenge admiration for its pretty arms, with all the pardonable
pride of a young mother.

"Won't you kiss it for once, Val?"

He took the child in his arms; it had its mother's fine dark eyes, and
looked straight up from them into his. Lord Hartledon suddenly bent his
own face down upon that little one with what seemed like a gesture of
agony; and when he raised it his own eyes were wet with tears. Maude felt
startled with a sort of terror: love was love; but she did not understand
love so painful as this.

She sat down with the baby on her knee, saying nothing; he did not intend
her to see the signs of emotion. And this brings us to where we were.
Lord Hartledon went on with his toilette, and presently someone knocked
at the door.

Two letters: they had come by the afternoon post, very much delayed on
account of the snow. He came back to the gaslight, opening one. A full
letter, written closely; but he had barely glanced at it when he hastily
folded it again, and crammed it into his pocket. If ever a movement
expressed something to be concealed, that did. And Lady Hartledon was
gazing at him with her questioning eyes.

"Wasn't that letter from Thomas Carr?"

"Yes."

"Is he coming up? Or is Kirton to be proxy?"

"He is--coming, I think," said Val, evidently knowing nothing one way or
the other. "He'll be here, I daresay, to-morrow morning."

Opening the other letter as he spoke--a foreign-looking letter this
one--he put it up in the same hasty manner, with barely a glance; and
then went on slowly with his d