gh he looked somewhat crestfallen. "You have
come not so much for us, though you are kindly disposed towards us, but
to put your future husband to the test. There is only this drawback,
that he might be an excellent fellow and yet object to the step you have
taken. Also that these sort of tests are very risky, and that it is
scarcely worth while for this, to run the risk of a bad illness, perhaps
of your life."

"That is unjust," said Bice with tears in her eyes. "I should have come
to Milady had there been no Montjoie at all. It is first and above all
for her sake. I will have a fever for her, oh willingly!" cried the
girl. Then she added after a little pause: "Why did she bid me 'go to
your father and tell him----?' What does that mean, go to my father? I
have never had any father."

"Did she say that?" Sir Tom cried. "When? and why?"

"It was when all seemed without hope. She was kneeling by the bed, and
he, my little boy, my little darling! Ah," cried Bice, with a shiver.
"To think it should have been so near! when God put that into her mind
to save him. She said 'Go to your father, and tell him my boy is dying.'
What did she mean? I came to you; but you are not my father."

He had risen up in great agitation and was walking about the room. When
she said these words he came up to her and laid his hand for a moment on
her head. "No," he said, with a sense of loss which was painful; "No,
the more's the pity, Bice. God bless you, my dear."

His voice was tremulous, his hand shook a little. The girl took it in
her pretty way and kissed it. "You have been as good to me as if it were
so. But tell me what Milady means? for at that moment she would say
nothing but what was at the bottom of her heart."

"I cannot tell you, Bice," said Sir Tom, almost with tears. "If I have
made her unhappy, my Lucy, who is better than any of us, what do I
deserve? what should be done to me? And she has been unhappy, she has
lost her faith in me. I see it all now."

Bice sat and looked at him with her eyes full of thought. She was not a
novice in life though she was so young. She had heard many a tale not
adapted for youthful ears. That a child might have a father whose name
she did not bear and who had never been disclosed to her was not
incomprehensible, as it would have been to an English girl. She looked
him severely in the face, like a young Daniel come to judgment. Had she
been indeed his child to what a terrible ordeal would Sir