ew's acquaintance, at any rate. I have something for him
in my portmanteau up-stairs."

Florence made a sudden and, as it seemed, involuntary gesture, and
knocked down a vase of flowers on the table at her right hand. There was
some confusion in consequence, as the flowers had to be gathered up and
the fragments of the broken vase collected, so that Hubert had little
opportunity of talking to his nephew. And, as soon as "the fuss," as he
mentally called it, was over, Mrs. Vane said, in her coldest, slowest
voice--

"Now, Dick, you may go to the nursery. Say good-night."

"Good-night?" questioned Hubert. "Why, he does not go to bed at this
hour in the afternoon, does he?"

"He goes at half-past six or seven," replied Florence. "Pray do not
interfere with nursery regulations, my dear Hubert."

"I shall see more of him to-morrow, I suppose," said Hubert, smiling at
the child's wistful face as he went from one to another to say
good-night.

Little Dick's eyes lit up at once, but the light in them died out when,
on tip-toe, as if afraid of disturbing her, he approached his mother.
Hubert thought that there was a touch of something odd in the manner of
everyone present, and was glad to see that Enid's kisses and whispered
words of endearment brought a flush of pleasure to the child's delicate
cheeks before he turned away.

The General then took possession of the visitor and marched him off to
look at the stables. The old man had recovered all his old cheeriness
and heartiness of manner; there was a little more feebleness in his gait
than there used to be, and he walked with a stick, but Hubert was
pleased to see that his eyes were bright, and to find him loquaciously
inclined. The shock of Sydney's death had not seriously affected him,
and Hubert was conscious of a thrill of relief at the sight of his
evident health and happiness. Considering that Mr. Lepel believed
himself to have closed his heart against the past, he was singularly
open to attacks of painful memory. He was annoyed by his own readiness
to be hurt, and almost wished that he had not come to Beechfield.

He saw neither of the ladies again till dinner time, when he thought
that Enid looked even lovelier in her simple white frock than in her
riding-habit. He observed her a good deal at dinner, and made up his
mind that she was the very model of an ideal heroine--sweet, gentle,
pure-minded, intelligent--all that a fresh young English girl should be.
The