disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty--he might
say, involuntarily.

"Will you come to my house?" said Sir Richard. "Here is my card. I
should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my
pony and--"

"And the remains," suggested the small butcher, seeing that Sir Richard
hesitated.

"Be so good as to call a cab," said Sir Richard in a general way to any
one who chose to obey.

"Here you are, sir!" cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly
judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required,
had drawn near to bide his time.

Sir Richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving
Number 666 to look after the pony and the remains.

Thus curiously were introduced to each other some of the characters in
our tale.

CHAPTER TWO.

THE IRRESISTIBLE POWER OF LOVE.

Need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part of
Di and her nurse when the former returned home? The child was an
affectionate creature as well as passionate. The nurse, Mrs Screwbury,
was also affectionate without being passionate. Poor Diana had never
known a mother's love or care; but good, steady, stout Mrs Screwbury
did what in her lay to fill the place of mother.

Sir Richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post might
have done had it owned a child. He illuminated her to some extent--
explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray around
himself; but his light did not extend far. He was proud of her,
however, and very fond of her--when good. When not good, he was--or
rather had been--in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery.

Nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasing
influence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by no
means destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moist
eyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautiful
child. Indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedient
father, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery.

"Papa," said Di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long after
the accident, "I _am_ so sorry for that poor policeman. It seems such a
dreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should have
heard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet go
spinning along like a boy's top, ever so far. I wonder it didn't kill
him. I'm _so_