at the captain with a smile.

"Her father's daughter, surely! bent on having her own way. What a fairy
it is! and yet such a perfect picture of health."

"Mabel never was ill an hour in her life, I believe," said her father;
"she is not at all too good for this world. I only hope she may not grow
up the torment of your life--she is thoroughly spoiled."

"And I fear if she were not, I should do it. Ah! I expect she will be a
great comfort to me, and a world of good to Rupert. He has never had a
playmate of his own years, and children need children as much as they
need sunshine."

They sat for ten minutes conversing gravely, chiefly on business
matters connected with little May's annuity--not at all as they had
conversed three days before by the seaside. Then, as half-past seven
drew near, the captain arose.

"I must go. I will hardly be in time as it is. Come here, little May,
and bid papa good-by."

"Let papa come to May," responded his daughter, still rocking. "I can't
get off."

Captain Everard laughed; went over, bent down and kissed her.

"Good-by, May; don't forget papa, and learn to be a good girl. Good-by,
baronet; try and grow strong and tall. Farewell, Lady Thetford, with my
best thanks."

She held his hand, looking up in his sunburned face with tears in her
dark eyes.

"We may never meet again, Captain Everard," she said, hurriedly. "Tell
me before we part that you forgive me the past."

"Truly, Ada, and for the first time. The service you have rendered me
fully atones. You should have been my child's mother--be a mother to her
now. Good-by, and God bless you and your boy."

He stooped over, touched her cheek with his lips reverentially, and then
was gone. Gone forever--never to meet those he left behind this side of
eternity.

Little May bore the loss of her papa and nurse with philosophical
indifference; her new playmate sufficed for both. The children took to
one another with the readiness of childhood--Rupert all the more readily
that he had never before had a playmate of his own years. He was
naturally a quiet child, caring more for his picture-books, and his
nurse's stories, than for tops, or balls, or marbles. But little May
Everard seemed from the first to inspire him with some of her own
superabundant vitality and life. The child was never, for a single
instant, quiet; she was the most restless, the most impetuous, the most
vigorous little creature that can be conceived. Feet, and to