self on the bench, and,
spreading the flowers by her side, began to arrange them in the form of
a nosegay. Still true to her love for Sydney, she had planned to present
the nosegay to her mother, offering the gift as an excuse for returning
to the forbidden subject of her governess, and for asking when they
might hope to see each other again.

Choosing flowers and then rejecting them, trying other colors and
wondering whether she had accomplished a change for the better, Kitty
was startled by the sound of a voice calling to her from the direction
of the brook.

She looked round, and saw a gentleman crossing the bridge. He asked the
way to Brightwater Cottage.

There was something in his voice that attracted her--how or why, at her
age, she never thought of inquiring. Eager and excited, she ran across
the lawn which lay between her and the brook, before she answered the
gentleman's question.

As they approached each other, his eyes sparkled, his face flushed;
he cried out joyfully, "Here she is!"--and then changed again in an
instant. A horrid pallor overspread his face as the child stood looking
at him with innocent curiosity. He startled Kitty, not because he seemed
to be shocked and distressed, she hardly noticed that; but because he
was so like--although he was thinner and paler and older--oh, so like
her lost father!

"This is the cottage, sir," she said faintly.

His sorrowful eyes rested kindly on her. And yet, it seemed as if she
had in some way disappointed him. The child ventured to say: "Do you
know me, sir?"

He answered in the saddest voice that Kitty had ever heard: "My little
girl, what makes you think I know you?"

She was at a loss how to reply, fearing to distress him. She could only
say: "You are so like my poor papa."

He shook and shuddered, as if she had said something to frighten him.
He took her hand. On that hot day, his fingers felt as cold as if it had
been winter time. He led her back to the seat that she had left. "I'm
tired, my dear," he said. "Shall we sit down?" It was surely true that
he was tired. He seemed hardly able to lift one foot after the other;
Kitty pitied him. "I think you must be ill;" she said, as they took
their places, side by side, on the bench.

"No; not ill. Only weary, and perhaps a little afraid of frightening
you." He kept her hand in his hand, and patted it from time to time. "My
dear, why did you say '_poor_ papa,' when you spoke of your father just
no