as
strolling about, a little boy whom I had not seen before came down the
walk and crossed the grass. He seemed to be a year or two older than
myself, and caught my eye immediately by his remarkable beauty, and by
the depth of the mourning which he wore. His features were exquisitely
cut, and, in a child, one was not disposed to complain of their
effeminacy. His long fair hair was combed--in royal fashion--down his
back, a style at that time most unusual; his tightly-fitting jacket
and breeches were black, bordered with deep crape; not even a white
collar relieved his sombre attire, from which his fair face shone out
doubly fair by contrast.

"Polly! Polly!" I cried, running to find my companion and guide, "who
is that beautiful boy in black?"

"That's little Sir Lionel Damer," said Polly. "Good-morning, Leo!" and
she nodded as he passed.

The boy just touched his hat, bent his head with a melancholy and yet
half-comical dignity, and walked on.

"Who's he in mourning for?" I asked.

"His father and mother," said Polly. "They were drowned together, and
now he is Sir Lionel."

I looked after him with sudden and intense sympathy. His mother and
his father too! This indeed was sorrow deeper than mine. Surely his
mother, like mine, must have been fair and beautiful, so much beauty
and fairness had descended to him.

"Has he any sisters, Polly?" I asked.

Polly shook her head. "I don't think he has anybody," said she.

Then he also was an only son!

CHAPTER VI

THE LITTLE BARONET--DOLLS--CINDER PARCELS--THE OLD GENTLEMAN NEXT
DOOR--THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

The next time I saw Sir Lionel was about two days afterwards, in the
afternoon, when the elder girls had gone for a drive in the carriage
with Aunt Maria, and the others, with myself, were playing in the
garden; Miss Blomfield being seated on a camp-stool reading a terrible
article on "Rabies" in the Medical Dictionary.

Rubens and I had strolled away from the rest, and I was exercising him
in some of his tricks when the little baronet passed us with his
accustomed air of mingled melancholy, dignity, and self-consciousness.
I was a good deal fascinated by him. Beauty has a strong attraction
for children, and the depth of his weeds invested him with a
melancholy interest, which has also great charms for the young. Then,
to crown all, he mourned the loss of a young mother--and so did I. I
involuntarily showed off Rubens as he approached, and he linger