cried Mr. John Zant. "I knew that you were
expected, my dear sir, and I took my chance at finding you at the
hotel." He turned to his sister-in-law, and kissed her hand with an
elaborate gallantry worthy of Sir Charles Grandison himself. "When I
reached home, my dear, and heard that you had gone out, I guessed that
your object was to receive our excellent friend. You have not felt
lonely while I have been away? That's right! that's right!" he looked
toward the balcony, and discovered Lucy at the open window, staring
at the magnificent stranger. "Your little daughter, Mr. Rayburn? Dear
child! Come and kiss me."

Lucy answered in one positive word: "No."

Mr. John Zant was not easily discouraged.

"Show me your doll, darling," he said. "Sit on my knee."

Lucy answered in two positive words--"I won't."

Her father approached the window to administer the necessary reproof.
Mr. John Zant interfered in the cause of mercy with his best grace. He
held up his hands in cordial entreaty. "Dear Mr. Rayburn! The fairies
are sometimes shy; and _this_ little fairy doesn't take to strangers at
first sight. Dear child! All in good time. And what stay do you make
at St. Sallins? May we hope that our poor attractions will tempt you to
prolong your visit?"

He put his flattering little question with an ease of manner which
was rather too plainly assumed; and he looked at Mr. Rayburn with a
watchfulness which appeared to attach undue importance to the reply.
When he said: "What stay do you make at St. Sallins?" did he really
mean: "How soon do you leave us?" Inclining to adopt this conclusion,
Mr. Rayburn answered cautiously that his stay at the seaside would
depend on circumstances. Mr. John Zant looked at his sister-in-law,
sitting silent in a corner with Lucy on her lap. "Exert your
attractions," he said; "make the circumstances agreeable to our good
friend. Will you dine with us to-day, my dear sir, and bring your little
fairy with you?"

Lucy was far from receiving this complimentary allusion in the spirit
in which it had been offered. "I'm not a fairy," she declared. "I'm a
child."

"And a naughty child," her father added, with all the severity that he
could assume.

"I can't help it, papa; the man with the big beard puts me out."

The man with the big beard was amused--amiably, paternally amused--by
Lucy's plain speaking. He repeated his invitation to dinner; and he
did his best to look disappointed when Mr. Rayburn made