medy has been tried and fails; and, remember, there is
no last remedy with a wise unfailing Providence." This was the surgeon's
reply.

"Oh, yes. But suppose he is dead, was killed, washed under the Tor by
the dark waters of the brook at the Ugly Leap," sighed the child.

"Oh, well," was the answer, "we can suppose almost anything--at least, a
little imaginative girl can; but suppose he is dead--which I do
not--dead or alive, he is in God's good keeping," was the reply.

CHAPTER VIII.

AT THE OWL'S NEST--THE SONG--THE SURPRISE.

Inna now had two new thoughts to ponder over. "Remember, there is no
last remedy with a wise unfailing Providence;" "Oscar in God's good
keeping." They came to her with thrilling freshness one day in the
gallery at Owl's Nest, as she wandered from picture to picture, musing
and dreaming.

She was often at the Owl's Nest. Besides going to and fro to lessons,
Madame Giche invited her to stay there for days together; it was good
for her little nieces to have a child companion, and it was good for the
little girl herself, for, as has been said, she moped and grew pale over
Oscar's disappearance. So, although they missed her at the farm, they
were glad to send her there. Jenny Gregory was invited also: quite a
bevy of young people did the four make, wandering through the old house,
not intruding upon its aged mistress, save at stated times and seasons,
but making a pleasant holiday of it; notwithstanding lessons with Miss
Gordon again, and the strumming through of many scales and exercises on
the piano. They never tired of roaming the terraces, where the peacocks
eyed them askance, and spread out their beautiful tails at them as in
proud disdain--those walking flowers of girls, who seemed to vie with
them and their plumage in their pretty bright spring dresses.

Glorious weather had followed Oscar's disappearance. It was May now, and
the other little girls were out in the park, gathering daisies, and
having a romp with Carlo, who would often come self-invited when Inna
was there. But, Inna had stolen away from them, for the rare treat of
being alone in the gallery, to admire and think about the pictures. That
of Madame Giche's son had a strange interest for her, a stranger picture
in a strange house, save for that of his mother keeping it company, like
loving hearts that could not be separated. Those dark, smiling,
beautiful eyes of his thrilled her through; she could not say why they