ime for a walk
before luncheon," Alice had replied: "Of course you have. The walk
will do you good."

What really determined him to seek Margaret's companionship was a
desire to fathom her heart. She was her father's confidante, and as
such might be dangerous, or useful. To have refused him Margaret knew
would only have made matters worse. Much as she disliked him, she was
grateful to him for having set the little Frenchman's arm; so she ran
into the house and returned in a moment, her fresh young face shaded
by a brim of straw covered with moss roses.

"What a pretty hat!" exclaimed Sperry, as they crossed the compound
to the trail leading down to the brook. "Oh, you young New York girls
know just what is and what is not becoming."

"Do you think so?" returned Margaret vaguely, not knowing just what
answer to make. "It was my own idea."

Sperry looked at the young girl, fresh and trim in her youth, and a
memory rushed over him of his Paris days. Margaret reminded him of
Lucille, he thought to himself, all except the eyes--Lucille's eyes
were black.

"Yes, it's adorable," he replied, drinking in the fresh beauty of the
young girl. "You are very pretty, my dear--just like your mother."
This line of attack had always succeeded in sounding the hearts of the
young girls he had known.

The girl blushed--the freedom of his tone troubled, and then half
frightened her. So much so that she walked on in silence, wishing she
had not come. Then again it was the first time she had been entirely
alone with him, and the feeling was not altogether a pleasant one.
There was, too, a certain familiarity in his voice and manner which
she would have resented in a younger man but which, somehow, she had
to submit to.

She stopped abruptly as they came to a steep rock.

"Please go on ahead," she said with an appealing look in her brown
eyes, as he put out his hand to help her down. "I can get down very
well myself."

"Come, be sensible, little girl," he returned; "we must not have
another accident to-day. Pretty ankles are as hard to mend as broken
arms."

Again the colour mounted to her cheeks; no one had ever spoken to her
in this way before.

"Please don't," she returned, her voice trembling.

"Don't _what_, may I ask?" he laughed.

"Please don't call me 'little girl'; I--I don't like it," she
returned, not knowing what else to say and still uneasy--outraged,
really, if she had understood her feelings. She sat down quick