er, if not particularly gratifying to Darrow, had at
least increased his desire to see the little girl. It gave him an
odd feeling of discomfort to think that she should have any of the
characteristics of the late Fraser Leath: he had, somehow, fantastically
pictured her as the mystical offspring of the early tenderness between
himself and Anna Summers.

His encounter with Effie took place the next morning, on the lawn below
the terrace, where he found her, in the early sunshine, knocking about
golf balls with her brother. Almost at once, and with infinite relief,
he saw that the resemblance of which Madame de Chantelle boasted was
mainly external. Even that discovery was slightly distasteful, though
Darrow was forced to own that Fraser Leath's straight-featured fairness
had lent itself to the production of a peculiarly finished image of
childish purity. But it was evident that other elements had also gone
to the making of Effie, and that another spirit sat in her eyes. Her
serious handshake, her "pretty" greeting, were worthy of the Leath
tradition, and he guessed her to be more malleable than Owen, more
subject to the influences of Givre; but the shout with which she
returned to her romp had in it the note of her mother's emancipation.

He had begged a holiday for her, and when Mrs. Leath appeared he and she
and the little girl went off for a ramble. Anna wished her daughter to
have time to make friends with Darrow before learning in what relation
he was to stand to her; and the three roamed the woods and fields till
the distant chime of the stable-clock made them turn back for luncheon.

Effie, who was attended by a shaggy terrier, had picked up two or three
subordinate dogs at the stable; and as she trotted on ahead with her
yapping escort, Anna hung back to throw a look at Darrow.

"Yes," he answered it, "she's exquisite...Oh, I see what I'm asking of
you! But she'll be quite happy here, won't she? And you must remember it
won't be for long..."

Anna sighed her acquiescence. "Oh, she'll be happy here. It's her nature
to be happy. She'll apply herself to it, conscientiously, as she does
to her lessons, and to what she calls 'being good'...In a way, you see,
that's just what worries me. Her idea of 'being good' is to please the
person she's with--she puts her whole dear little mind on it! And so, if
ever she's with the wrong person----"

"But surely there's no danger of that just now? Madame de Chantelle
tells