the child, struggling to get free. "Let
me go--I don't know you!"

The captain set him down with a grim smile; and the boy clung to his
mother's skirts, and eyed the tall stranger askance.

"I want to go home, mamma. I'm tired and hungry."

"Presently, dearest. Run to William, he has cakes for you. Captain
Everard, I shall be happy to have you at dinner."

"Thanks; but I must decline. I go back to London to-night. I sail for
India again in a week."

"So soon! I thought you meant to remain."

"Nothing is further from my intention. I merely brought my little girl
over to provide her a home; that is why I have troubled _you_. Will you
do me this kindness, Lady Thetford?"

"Take your little girl? Oh! most gladly--most willingly."

"Thanks. Her mother's people are French, and I know little about them;
and, save yourself, I can claim friendship with few in England. She will
be poor; I have settled on her all I am worth--some three hundred a
year; and you, Lady Thetford, you teach her, when she grows up, to catch
a rich husband."

She took no notice of the taunt; she looked only too happy to render him
this service.

"I am so pleased! She will be such a nice companion for Rupert. How old
is she?"

"Nearly four."

"Is she here?"

"No; she is in London. I will fetch her down in a day or two."

"What do you call her?"

"Mabel--after her mother. Then it is settled, Lady Thetford, I am to
fetch her?"

"I shall be delighted. But won't you dine with me?"

"No. I must catch the evening train. Farewell, Lady Thetford, and many
thanks. In three days I will be here again."

He lifted his hat, and walked away. Lady Thetford watched him out of
sight, and then turned slowly, as she heard her little boy calling to
her with shrill impatience. The red sunset had faded out; the sea lay
gray and cold under the twilight sky; and the evening breeze was chill.
Changes in sky, and sea, and land, told of coming night; and Lady
Thetford, shivering slightly in the rising wind, hurried away to be
driven home.

CHAPTER III.

"LITTLE MAY."

On the evening of the third day after this interview, a fly from the
railway drove up the long, winding avenue leading to the great front
entrance of the Thetford mansion. A bronzed military gentleman, a nurse,
and a little girl, occupied the fly, and the gentleman's keen, dark eyes
wandered searchingly around. Swelling meadows, velvety lawns, sloping
terraces, waving trees, brigh