y soon," the colonel said, inexpressibly touched; "but little
May will go to papa some day. You are mamma, I suppose?" smiling at Lady
Thetford.

"Yes," nodded May, "that's mamma, and Rupert's mamma. Oh! I'm so sorry
papa isn't coming home soon. Do you know," looking up in his face with
big, shining, solemn eyes, "I've got a pony, and I can ride lovely; and
its name is Snow-drop, because it's all white, and Rupert's is black,
and _his_ name is Sultan? And I've got a watch; mamma gave it to me last
Christmas; and my doll's name--the big one, you know, that opens its
eyes and says, 'mamma' and 'papa,' is Sonora. Have you got any little
girls at home?"

"One, Miss Chatterbox."

"What's her name?"

"Aileen--Aileen Jocyln."

"Is she nice?"

"Very nice, I think."

"Will she come to see me?"

"If you wish it, and mamma wishes it."

"Oh, yes! you do, don't you, mamma? How big is your little girl--as big
as me?"

"Bigger, I fancy. She is nine years old."

"Then she's as big as Rupert--he's nine years old. May she fetch her
doll to see Sonora?"

"Certainly--a regiment of dolls, if she wishes."

"Can't she come to-morrow?" asked Rupert, "To-morrow's May's birthday;
May's seven years old to-morrow. Mayn't she come?"

"That must be as mamma says."

"Oh, fetch her," cried Lady Thetford, "it will be so nice for May and
Rupert. Only I hope little May won't quarrel with her; she does quarrel
with her playmates a good deal, I am sorry to say."

"I won't, if she's nice," said May; "it's all their fault. Oh, Rupert!
there's Mrs. Weymore on the lawn, and I want her to come and see the
rabbits. There's five little rabbits this morning, mamma--mayn't I go
and show them to Mrs. Weymore?"

Lady Thetford nodded smiling acquiescence; and away ran little May and
Rupert to show the rabbits to the governess.

Colonel Jocyln lingered for half an hour or upwards, conversing with his
hostess, and rose to take his leave at last, with the promise of
returning on the morrow with his little daughter, and dining at the
house. As he mounted his horse and rode homeward, "a haunting shape, an
image gay," followed him through the genial May sunshine--Lady Thetford,
fair, and stately, and graceful.

"Nine years a widow," he mused. "They say she took her husband's death
very hard--and no wonder, considering how he died; but nine years is a
tolerable time in which to forget. She received the news of Everard's
death very quietly. I don't