 CHAPTER I Now what can be done? said the doctor. That's the question. What on earth can I do about it? He put this question emphatically, with an energetic blow of his gloved hand upon his knee, and seemed very desirous of receiving an answer, although he was jogging along alone in his comfortable brolem. But the doctor was perplexed, and wanted someone to help him out of his difficulty. He was a bachelor, and knew therefore that it was of no use letting Patrick drive him home in search of a confidant, for at home the ruling genius of his household was his housekeeper, Mrs. Jessup. She was a most excellent creature, an invaluable manager of the house, the tradespeople, and the maidservants, and a splendid cook. The doctor appreciated her highly. But he was not disposed to ask her advice or to invite her consolation. He beat his knee a little harder, frowned more severely, finally let down the window, put out his head, and called smartly, Patrick. Sir, Patrick pulled up the slim, clean-limb brown horse, as quickly as he could in the midst of the hurrying vehicles, and hucksters sawls, which are usually to be found in the Essex Road at about seven o'clock on Saturday evening, and looked questionably down at his master. Don't go home, drive me to Persium Villa, said Dr. Brudnell. Patrick obeyed rather sulkingly. He did not know what his master could possibly want at Persium Villa, where he had already been once that day, and he did know that he himself was exceedingly hungry, and desirous of getting home. He gave the brown horse an undeserved cut over the ears with his whip, and when he pulled up he did so with a jerk, which he might easily have avoided. I shan't be many minutes, said the doctor, alighting in front of a comfortable-looking, well-kept house, with red gleams of fire-light shining from its parlor windows. Walk the horse up and down to keep the cold off, but don't go far. It's cold enough, will both be, I'm thinking, muttered Patrick, gathering up the reins with a shiver, for it was really a very cold evening indeed, damp and grey, with a biting east wind. If the doctor heard this complaint, he did not heed it, his policy being, when his henchmen was attacked with a fit of grumbling, to let him recover his good temper at his leisure. He had hurried up the snow-white flight of steps, given a vigorous knock at the door, and, being admitted by a neat maid-servant, was asking if Mrs. Leslie was at home. Hearing that she was, he crossed the hall with an air of being perfectly at home, and, after tapping at the door, entered the parlor, causing a lady who was making tea to utter an exclamation of surprise, and a young lady who was making toast before the glowing fire to drop a deliciously brown slice of bread into the cinders. Why, doctor, the tea-maker extended a plump hand good-naturedly. You again? You are just in time for a cup of tea. I believe you came on purpose. Hardly that, but I shall be glad of one, if I may have it, Mrs. Leslie. The doctor returned, emulating her light tone as well as he could, and, after shaking hands with the younger lady, who got up from her knees to greet him, he took a seat near the round table, not in the well-worn, cozy armchair in the snuggest corner of the snug room, which, with his gorgeous dressing-gown throne across it, and slippers warming before the fire, wad evidently sacred to someone else. Of course, although I fancy you rather despise it as a role, not a bit like my Tom. Ah, you see I'm not like Tom in having some one to make it for me. Well, that's your fault, I suppose, said the lively woman, vivaciously, as she deftly handed the shining copper kettle. I told Kate it was your knock, but she wouldn't believe that you could honour us with two visits in one day. I thought Dr. Bretnell's time was too valuable, observed Kate quietly as she resumed her toasting. She was not nearly so pretty as her sister, although Mrs. Leslie was the elder of the two by twelve years. Maria Leslie had taken life so easily, and turned such a bright face to all its ups and downs, that time had rewarded her at forty, by making her look six or seven years younger. A downright pretty woman she was, bright eyed, bright-cheeked, bright-haired, and so plump and merry that it was a pleasure to look at her. Kate Merritt was smaller, darker, more grave, and less attractive altogether. Dr. Bretnell liked them both, but he preferred the elder, as most people did. He enjoyed a visit to Persham Villa. It was almost the only house whose inhabitants he was upon really easily and familiar terms, for he was by nature a shy and retiring man. He had got into the habit of confiding in tearful Mrs. Leslie, but he seldom taught to Kate, who was too diffident to make him forget that he also was inclined to be shy. Indeed, he thought so little about her that he had not even a suspicion that in her quiet, cool, self-controlled, persistent way she had made up her mind to marry him. Mrs. Leslie did know it, and often rated her sister soundly on the subject, with even a touch of contempt sometimes. You are most absurd to keep that silly notion fixed in your head, she would declare, impatiently. He doesn't care a straw for you, child. Having you wit enough to see that? If he only knew what a goose you were, he'd pay you the compliment of thinking you crazy. I tell you, he's a good fellow, the best fellow in the world after my Tom, but there's something odd about him in that way. Can't you see that he hardly knows one woman from another, you silly child? I don't, for my part, believe that the man has ever been in love in his life at all. Mrs. Leslie was penetrative, but in this matter she was wrong. For, if George Bretonel had been asked, he would probably have confessed that he had been in love twice. True, his first passion had been conceived at the age of eighteen, its object being the bosom friend of his only sister, a young lady who owned to six and twenty, and who had laughed at him mercifully when the most startling of Valentine's had made her aware of the state of things. Then, years after, when he was nearly thirty, he had become very fond of the daughter of his partner, a pretty gentle winning creature, some half dozen years younger than himself, who had girlishly adored him. He had been so fond of her, and so used to her, he had grieved so sincerely when, a month before what was to have been their wedding day, she died, that he did not realize in the least, that he had reached his present age of forty-three, without having been really in love at all. He was not unhappy, a studious man, cold, takedown, and self-contained as a rule, caring little for general society and devoted to his profession, the want in his life, the blank in his wifeless and childless home, was not to him what it would have been to a more impulsive, less self-reliant nature. If sometimes he instituted an involuntary comparison between his contracted hope and interest as contrasted with those of other men, books, his work, his studies, soon consoled him. He hardly knew there was a yearning in his breast, a vague intangible feeling, waiting for a mistress hand to stir it into activity, the hand of a woman whom he had never seen, and what brings you here a second-time doctor, asked Mrs. Leslie, brightly as she poured out a cup of tea and handed it to him, are you going to give us some advice, Gratis? Hardly, Mrs. Leslie, in fact, I want yours. Mine, exclaimed the lady vivaciously, it is yours, of course, but upon what subject? You recollect that I told you my sister was coming home from India with her children? To be sure, I remember. Well, I have a letter from her announcing that, as she has been out of health for the last month or two, her husband does not wish her to travel yet, but her children are coming to England, they are on their way, in fact, and coming to me. Dr. Bradnell, in making this statement, did not feel comical, but he looked so, in spite of his grave-refined, scholarly face, and Mrs. Leslie greeted his words with a burst of hearty laughter. My dear doctor, don't look so tragic, the poor little creatures won't eat you, so they are coming to you. Well, what is your difficulty? Merely, what am I to do with them? Why, take care of them, of course. The doctor stirred his tea with an air of helpless bewilderment. He felt that this was all very well as far as it went, and strictly what he meant to do, of course, but it did not go far enough. It was no solution of his difficulty. He felt a distinct sense of injury, too. His sister had got married, which was all very well. She had had eight children, only three of whom were now alive, and it occurred to him that, having the children, it was clearly Laura's duty to look after them. There was an element of coolness in her sending them to him, which he found rather disconcerting. It opened a prospect of unending domestic tribulation. Laura herself had been an altogether irrepressible child, loud in voice, restless of movement, tireless of tongue, insatiable in curiosity, unceasing in mischief. What would his quiet house be with three editions of Laura running rampant about it? They would invade his study, disarrange his books, frolic in the drawing room, make quiet and peace things of the past. What could he do with them? What would Mrs. Jessup say? The doctor shuttered at the thought. The prospect appalled him. You had better get a governess for them, suggested Mrs. Leslie Briskley. A governess? This was a ray of light, but he was not sure that he did not prefer darkness. Oh, a governess, he repeated, interrogatively. Of course. They will be tiresome, you may be sure. All children are, and Anglo-Indian ones particularly, at least so I should fancy, and you certainly will not want them disturbing you, while it will never do to have them running riot over the house. Get a good, sensible, responsible person, not too young, and you will find that you need hardly be troubled at all. The doctor felt that this council was good. It was plain, practical, feasible. But there remained a difficulty. How was he to become possessed of the sensible, responsible person, who was not too young? Advertise, suggested his advisor, Tursley. Of course, how very foolish of him not to have thought of it. The plainest possible way out of the dilemma. Thank you, Mrs. Leslie, said the doctor, rising and ticking up his hand. Thank you. I have no doubt that you are perfectly right. I will advertise. He shook hands with the ladies, gratefully with the one, indifferently with the other, and bowed himself out, hurrying to the waiting Patrick, who had fulfilled his own prophecy in so far that he was by this time cold in every limb, although his temper was exceedingly warm. From the window Kate Merritt watched the brolem roll away, and then turned to her sister angrily, tears in her eyes, a hot flush upon her face. Although she was by nature really obstinate, resolute and persistent, she often exhibited upon the surface a childish pettiness with which her real self was absurdly at variance. She spoke now as a spoiled child might have done. How dreadfully disagreeable you are, Maria. It's too bad, I declare. I believe you do it on purpose, there. Do what on purpose? What in the world do you mean? cried Mrs. Leslie, pausing sugar tongs in hand. You know what I mean, exclaimed Kate, scarcely able to suppress a sob. I declare I do not. This is some fad about Dr. Brutnell, I suppose, said the elder sister resigningly. Do me the favour to be intelligible at least, Kate. What is it that you mean? Why did you advise him to advertise demanded Miss Merritt? Because it was the most sensible advice I could give him. Is that the grievance? What objections have you to his advertising? That I know very well what it will come to. He'll take your advice and advertise, and get some woman into his house, who will pet the children and coax and wedle them until she gets completely round him, and then we know what will happen, cried Kate, with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. Mrs. Leslie looked at her and had some difficulty in restraining a laugh. Nonsense child, Dr. Brutnell will no more fall in love with his governess than he will with anybody else, for goodness sake do try to be more sensible. A nice opinion of you he would have if he could only hear and see you now. I must say, I should be ashamed if I were you to spend my time fretting and crying after a man who didn't care a pin about me like a love sick schoolgirl. Dry your eyes and come to the table. Whoever the poor man gets for a governess, I hope she may have more common sense than you, I am sure. And the sooner he advertises for her the better, if that unruly brood is to be here so soon, he would never have thought of advertising but for you, said Kate resentfully. Probably not, retorted Mrs. Leslie tartly, but now he will do it, and quickly if he is sensible. Mrs. Leslie was wrong. The doctor did not advertise for a governess, although when he left he was firmly resolved upon doing so. He drove home quickly to his handsome house in Cannonberry and enjoyed an excellent dinner by the bright fire in his comfortable dining room with a renewed appreciation of the excellent Mrs. Jessup. Then he summoned that lady in his presence and with very little circumlocution broke to her the news of the promise invasion and the suggested panacea. Finding that Mrs. Jessup took the matter on the whole ammiably, he felt considerably relieved in mind and began placidly to smoke his pipe over the times. The leading article was stupid, so porphyric. The tobacco soothing, the fire hot. He was just hovering in delicious languor upon the very borders of dreamland when a knock at the door roused him abruptly. Of course, he was called out. Had the call been from a well to do patient who fostered a half fancied illness, he might have been more put out than he certainly was when. Upon turning into the street, he felt the keen east wind nipping his ears. But it was from a poor house lying in the midst of a varied labyrinth of squalid back streets and foul courts, and yet but a mere stone throw from his own comfortable dwelling. The doctor did all he could for the patient, a disheveled woman who had fallen while drunk and cut her head. He bound up the wound, gave a prescription and leaving directions with the voluble Irish charwoman who filled the place of a nurse left the close evil smelling room glad to breathe even the tainted air outside and as quickly as he could retrace his steps. He had left the last of the wretched narrow streets behind him and was turning into a wider road which led by a shortcut to the adjacent thoroughfare when he heard a shriek, a terrible cry of agony or fear, perhaps both, and there, not more than a hundred yards before him, standing out black against the surrounding gray, two figures were frantically struggling, a man and a woman. George Bretnell, slate and wiry in figure, was active and swift as a boy. He shouted and ran, but before he could reach the two, the man had violently wrestled his arm free and raised it in the air. There was a flash of steel as it descended, a shrill cry that broke off into a moan, and the doctor, hardly able to check himself, almost stumbled over the woman as she fell at his feet. End of Chapter 1, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter No. 2 of A Bachelor's Dream, by Mrs. Hungerford. This Liber-Grocks Recording is in the public domain. Dr. Bretnell's first rapid glance about him as he recovered his balance assured him that pursuit would be futile. The man had darted off down a narrow turning which had led into a maze of streets. Already his rapid footsteps had ceased to echo on the pavement. He was lost by this time in the Biss Sea restless throng of Saturday night foot passengers. The doctor, abandoning any idea of chasing and securing him, lost not a moment in doing what he could. The short street was a new one, having on one side a neglected piece of wasteland where bricks, gravel, and mortar were flung in confusion. Upon the other a row of half finished houses, a curve at its upper end hid the thoroughfare beyond. Although the sound of wheels and the horse cries of hucksters were audible to him as he dropped upon one knee and gently raised the inert figure, blood was upon it. He felt it and knew that it was straining his hand. Had no one heard that dreadful thrilling cry but himself, it seemed not. He shouted loudly with the full power of his lungs. Help! help! murder! hair! help! He was heard, for, as he loudly shouted again, voices answered him, and in a few moments a group of men and women had gathered about him, eager, excited, questioning. Before he could answer them, they made way for a surgeon of police whom Dr. Bretnell happened to know. He explained hastily, the knot commended. The sergeant was cool and professional. Petey, you weren't quick enough to nab him, sir. He went down upon his knee and turned the light of his lantern upon the ghastly face. Hm! young and a spanker to look at. I should say. Wonder if it was robbery? Is she dead, sir? No, the doctor laid her gently down, his practiced hand over the heart. No, she's not dead. The blow was aimed at her heart, but something in her dress, a corset, probably, turned the weapon aside. Call me a cab, somebody. You're off duty, I think, sergeant. Can you come with me? I am, sir. Always happens so when there's nothing anything doing, muttered the sergeant discontentedly. Here's another of our people that ain't, though, as a second sergeant forced his way through the group, followed by a constable. Baxter, you'd best step round and report this little job, and not lose any time about it, either. It's attempted murder. That's what the game is. Chap made off as if he'd got springs in his heels. The second officer bent down as the first one had done, glanced at the bloodless face, asked a question or two, and started off at a smart pace, the fringe of the crowd hurrying after him. The doctor looked at his companion, repeating, can you come with me? I may want assistance. With pleasure, sir. You'll take her to the hospital, I suppose? No, my house is nearer, and unless the wound is looked to at once, I don't answer for the consequences. There is no objection, I suppose. The sergeant thought there could be no objection, although the hospital was the usual thing. The doctor put aside that consideration contemptuously. From what he could see of the wound, he was prepared to state professionally that any delay would be highly dangerous. The sergeant yielded the point respectfully, but protestingly, and the cab came, bringing an excited crowd in its train. There was no lack of proffered help. But the doctor and the sergeant lifted the insensible woman into the cab between them. On arriving at the doctor's house, the two men carried her indoors. Then Bell's ring made servants hurried, exclaimed, and questioned, and soon the door of the library was closed upon all except Mrs. Jessup and the doctor. The sergeant retired to the dining room and meditatively took an inventory of its furniture and appointments as he awaited further developments. Noticing the doctor's decanter of choice old port, which was still upon the table where he had left it, the officer helped himself to a glass full, drinking it with evident relish. Half an hour passed before the doctor entered. He took his seat thoughtfully by the fire and motioned to the sergeant to draw his chair nearer. The wound is not much, merely a deep flesh wound, he observed abruptly. Glad to hear it, I'm sure, returned the sergeant politely. She has lost a great deal of blood, will be much weakened, and is totally insensible now, Dr. Brondell continued, but no vital part is touched, not the fault of that scoundrel, though sergeant. Ah, replied the sergeant intelligently. The doctor had motioned to help himself to the wine, and he did so now with contemplative deliberation. Then you think it is a case of intended murder? I take it, sir. As far as my judgment serves me, yes, I should say the blow was meant to kill her. Indeed, only the steel of her corset saved her. Hmm, I thought as much. Now, as to motive, sir, have you got any theory? Robbery, I suppose. Ah, as the sergeant shook his head with a wise air. You don't think so, then? No, I don't, sir. Maybe, of course, but I doubt it. A man don't use a knife when his fists will do as a rule. And look you here, sir, said the sergeant, leaning forward to place his broad hand for a moment upon the doctor's knee. When you find an old gentleman with a bald crown or a spectacle old lady with a bag and umbrella tipped over neat in a corner, you may put it down to robbery, for you won't find anything in their pockets. A wager. But you find a good-looking fellow with a hap-port of rat poison inside of him that he didn't put there himself, or a young woman stabbed. That's as handsome as that one, jerking his head towards the door. And you won't go far wrong if you put it down to jealousy. The doctor sat silently pondering. The sergeant slowly filled his glass again. You've examined her dress, of course, sir. Anything in the pockets? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing torn? No appearance of having been robbed? No, merely the cut where the blow was given. Just so, sir, about the weapon, an ordinary knife, should you say? No, from the appearance and general character of the wound it was caused by a two-edged blade. Sort of a dagger, stiletto kind of thing, queried the sergeant. I should say so. The sergeant gave a prolonged whistle with an air of intense satisfaction. Supports my idea, you see, sir. A man going about with a dagger in his pocket usually means to use it. A case of jealousy. That's what it is. It's surprising, I'm sure, the way a man will put his neck into a rope if there's a woman to other side of it. You wait till this young woman comes round, and you'll find that that's about the size of it. The work of some hot-headed young fool she's thrown over, I expect. Or maybe she's bolted from her husband, and it's a case of elopement. Shouldn't wonder, for the handsomer they are, the more mischief they get up to. That's my experience. I hope you are mistaken, said the doctor, rising and looking thoughtfully at the fire. I hope you are, but we shall see. Fill your glass, Sergeant. Thank you, sir. I am sure. The sergeant obediently filled his glass for the fourth time, and held it critically between his eye and the light. Well, we shall see, as you say, when do you fancy you'll be able to speak to her, may I ask? Impossible to say. She may be sensible tomorrow, or the shock may cause a fever, in which case her condition may become highly dangerous. I can't possibly say. Petey, there isn't something about her by which she might be identified, muse the sergeant thoughtfully. But it'll all be in the papers tomorrow, and it will be odd if it doesn't catch the eye of someone who knows her. But she's French, if I don't mistake, or at any rate, not English. Dr. Brunnell, recalling his impression of the ghastly face, as he had seen it, first in the light of the sergeant's lantern, and afterward lying upon a pillow, hardly whiter than itself, silently endorsed this opinion. No, decidedly, she was not English. But he did not think she was French. The sergeant thoughtfully emptied his glass, and set it down upon the table. We'll do all we can, of course, but it strikes me that the chances of nabbing the man don't amount to much unless the young man comes to herself in time to help us. And, if she does, it's about twenty to one that she puts us on a wrong scent. Well, I'm on duty again directly, and I'll be going. Will you step down to the station with me, sir? Certainly, if you think it necessary. The sergeant thought that it might be as well, and the doctor put on his hat and coat, and walked with his companion to the police station, where the inspector on duty, who had received one report already, listened to his statement, wrote it all down imperturbally, and approved with some warmth of the sergeant's theory as to jealousy. This, or a knuckle duster, did well enough for robbery. The inspector observed orically, it was only when a man went a bit off his head that he took to daggers, and there was more of that sort of thing about, presumably meaning jealousy, that any one would credit, though, when it came to going it to that extent, the inspector's private opinion was that no woman was worth it. Is there much chance of capturing this man, do you think, Dr. Brutnell asked? Why, that depended. If the young woman came to herself, saved to-morrow, and told the truth, you would know where you were, but if, on the other hand, the young woman chose to put them on an altogether false scent, which was rather more likely than not, why, where, would they be? Feeling that he could not successfully answer this official poser, the doctor bade the sergeant and the inspector good night, and, repeating his former assurances of perfect willingness to do whatever he could in the affair, walked out of the police station. At home, by the dining room fire, he found the invaluable Mrs. Jessup waiting for him. Well, Mrs. Jessup, and how is our patient now, he inquired cheerfully. He did not feel cheerful, but Mrs. Jessup had shown some slight reluctance and resentment at being suddenly called upon to assume the function of nurse to a totally unknown and much too handsome young woman, and he thought it only prudent to conciliate her. Pretty much the same, sir, hasn't stirred so much as a finger or opened her eyes. The weather or not it's a natural sleep I couldn't take upon myself to say. I'll step upstairs again with you in a moment. What I fear is fever, consequent on the shock. If we can keep off that, she will most likely awaken sensible enough. I hope so. I am sure for the sake of catching that cowardly villain, whoever it was. He must have meant to murder her. You think, sir, inquired Mrs. Jessup, smoothing her cap ribbons thoughtfully. I'm afraid so, poor girl. She is quite young. Yes, sir, and most remarkably handsome. No doubt, sir. She is a foreigner. I fancy. It is most unfortunate that there is nothing on her by which we can identify her. By the way, I did not notice. Did you see if she were rings? No, sir. Not a wedding ring? No, sir. And not a trinket of any kind about her? Not one, sir. Nothing whatsoever? Nothing whatever persisted the doctor amusingly? As he held out his hands to the fire, they were cold for the February night air was keen. There was this, sir, said Mrs. Jessup abruptly. She held out to him upon the palm of her plump hand a tiny roll of paper, tied with a wisp of faded red silk. Where did you find this? In a little pocket inside the bosom of her gown, sir, it looked as if it had been made for it. Have you read it? No, sir. It's gibberish. The doctor untied and unrolled the little packet, then looked at it by the gaslight. It was covered with characters of a deep red color, curious and fantastic, and to him absolutely meaningless. It looked strange, uncanny, which like? Was it a charm? The doctor studied it, wonderingly, for a few moments, and then laughed at the thought of such an absurd, fancy assailing hymn. He rolled up and retied the little packet. Well, that won't help us much, he said. As I thought, we must wait for light from her, poor girl. Take care of it, Mrs. Jessup. She might attach some fanciful value to it. Dr. Brutnell, standing by the bed in the comfortable room, to which the unknown woman had been carried, looked down at her curiously and scrutinizingly. Upon the white pillows he saw a pale face lying, a face that was exquisitely chiseled, the head crowned by a wonderful mass of thick black hair, beautiful, he muttered, under his breath, and turning away. I should fancy it was jealousy. The next day's papers contained a sufficiently thrilling account of the attempted murder of a lady in Rockmore Street. But, although an elaborate description of the victim's person in attire was given and enlarged upon with due journalistic skill, it brought no anxious troop of friends and relatives to inquire at Dr. Brutnell's door, and the best efforts of the inspector and his subordinates to track the would-be murderer came to ignomious grief, for the only person who could perhaps have put them upon his track lay tossing in a delirium of fever. End of Chapter 2. Chapter No. 3 of A Bachelor's Dream by Mrs. Hungerford. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Hang the Brats, exclaimed Dr. Brutnell angrily. If this goes on for long, they'll drive me mad, I swear. He was annoyed, shaved, irritated, more out of temper than he had ever been before. The preceding week had been to him a period of purgatory. The calm of his house was broken. His study was no longer a sanctuary. The maids were flurried. Mrs. Jessup spoiled the soup. The bachelor transformed suddenly into a family man, without any preliminary steps, was amazed and bewildered. The sufferings of his married acquaintances filled him with a grotesque feeling of pity with the sincerest sympathy he especially commiserated Laura's husband, for the three children had turned out to be three empathetic additions of Laura, with additions. Just now the uproar which had caused the master of the house to spring up from the dinner was more than usually full of furious. The three had escaped from their extemporized nursery, and had shouted and tumbled to multruously down the staircase and into the hall. The street door happened to be open, and the consequences were disastrous. One rushed down the steps with a scream triumph, which changed into a shrill shriek of anger, as he was pursued, captured, and brought back by Patrick, in spite of violent kicking and struggling. Another, backing unconsciously toward the kitchen staircase, overbalanced and descended with a succession of startling bumps, fell into a tray of glasses with a terrific crash, while the third and youngest not precisely comprehending what was the matter, but being of a highly sympathetic temperament threw himself upon the devoted Patrick, screaming, kicking, and scratching furiously, which added to the shouts of the youth, whom Patrick carried upside down, and the wails of the unfortunate, whom Mrs. Jessup had just rescued from the debris of the glass, swallowed the uproar into a chorus that was almost deafening. The doctor sat down again, and took up his knife and fork with an energy which sent the gravy flying over the snowy cloth. Confound the little wretches, I'll advertise tomorrow, he said. The noise outside subsided a little as Mrs. Jessup appeared upon the scene, but the next moment it broke out again, growing louder as the staircase was mounted. Evidently Mrs. Jessup intended to put the rebels to bed, a resolution which did not apparently please them, for Dr. Brunel distinctly heard his elder nephew threaten to punch the head of that worthy woman, while his brother and sister appeared to be trying to dance upon her toes. Then came a cessation of the Habab, sudden and soothing, and the doctor finished his dinner in peace. Crossing the hall toward his study a little later, with the intention of getting a book to add to the enjoyment of a fine, very fine-flavored cigar, he encountered Mrs. Jessup, somewhat flushed and tumbled, coming downstairs, and stopped to speak to her. Well, Mrs. Jessup, got rid of your charges for tonight, eh? he said good-humoredly. That I haven't, sir, for to go to bed they wouldn't. I've seen a good many children, but never did I see children so set upon their own way as them children, declared Mrs. Jessup, emphatically. The doctor felt that this was correct, his opinion being that any children in the least degree resembling Laura's luckily did not exist anywhere. Oh, spoilt, Mrs. Jessup, he remarked judicially. Spoilt, that's it. They'll be better, you'll find, when we get a good strict governess for them. And that reminds me, I must certainly advertise for one tomorrow. I don't know how it is that it has slipped my memory for so long, so they're not in bed, the young rogue say? No, sir, they're with Mrs. Butchafen. With her? You should not have allowed it. You should not have let them go in, said the doctor, quickly and preemptorily. I couldn't help it, sir, return the housekeeper stolidly. They started making such a racket of stamping and screaming outside her door that she heard and opened it to ask what was the matter. Of course, they were for rushing in before I could keep them back, and so she said, let them stay awhile, and she would keep them still, and so there they are, and she telling them some fairytale nonsense. Well, well, exclaimed the doctor, and then added, how does Miss Butchafen seem today? Better I think, sir, she seems so. She asked me to say that if you were at liberty, she would be glad if you could spare her a few minutes. Tell her I will come up presently, said Dr. Brunel, going on to his study. Don't let those young torments stay there long enough to tire her, Mrs. Jessup, if you please. She is still very weak. But, when he went upstairs half an hour later, he found that Mrs. Jessup had not yet succeeded in getting the young torments out of Mrs. Butchafen's room. Miss Butchafen was sitting in a great chair by the fire, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders, and with the chicken grouped about her, floss on her knee, Maggie perched on the arm of her chair and Tom kneeling at her feet, all three listening intently to what she was telling them. What it was the doctor did not hear, for the group broke up at his entrance. Tom sprang to his feet, Maggie jumped down, and Miss Butchafen let floss slip from her knees to the floor. Oh, Uncle, I wish you hadn't come, cried Tom. It was such a lovely Tory, lamented Maggie, whose five-year-old vocabulary was but limited, while floss, whose name was short for Ferdinand, and who had perhaps not yet fully recovered from the shock of his tumble down the kitchen stairs, contended himself with surveying his relative with an implacable expression as he sucked his thumb. I will finish the story to-morrow. Perhaps, said Mrs. Butchafen quietly, go to bed now. See, Mrs. Jessup is waiting for you. They went without a murmur. Indeed, they hardly look sulky but walked off in the wake of Mrs. Jessup, very unlike Laura's children. The doctor thought. He was amazed and stood for a few moments after the door had closed behind them, quite silent, and looking at Alexa Butchafen. A month had passed since the night of the attempted murder in Rockmore Street, and although during that time she had lived under his roof, George Brutinelle knew no more of this girl than her name. One thing, however, he did know, and was growing to know better day by day that she was beautiful, with a beauty that was to him unique, startling. He had seen none like it before. She had risen as the children left the room, and stood with her hand resting upon the mantle shelf, her eyes gazing downward at the fire, her head above the level of his. He looked at her, thinking how beautiful she was, and thinking not for the first time either, that she was not sure whether that very beauty did not repel rather than charm him. For it seemed to have at once the glitter of ice and the hardness of stone. Her large dark bright eyes seemed to pierce him, but they never touched his heart. A smile sometimes broke the perfect lines of her lips, but never reached those eyes. The natural play of her features seemed to be checked. She appeared to be as incapable of tears as of laughter, of grief as of joy. No rush of warm blood ever tinted the strange pallor of her cheeks with crimson. Her voice was rich and full, but there was a jarring note in its melancholy music. The girl was like marble, breathing, moving, living, but marble still. The doctor waited for her to speak, but either from perseverance or indifference, she stood like a statue and would not even raise her eyes. He was forced to break the silence, which embarrassed him, and he knew that he spoke awkwardly. I think, he said, that you wish to speak to me. Yes, sir, if you please. This was another anomaly. Her words were always of a meek and submissive character, but her voice, her look, her gestures, were those of a queen. The doctor felt this, but hardly its incongruity, as she slowly resumed her seat, and signed to him to be seated also. I am quite at your service, of course, he replied, as he sat down, but first let me ask how you are feeling. I am well, she answered gravely. A little weak, still perhaps, but it will pass. I wish. Ah, pardon me. I am forgetting that I am not to thank you, sir. She had attempted to thank him before, when she first recovered her senses and realized her position, but he had sensitively deprecated that, on the same day she had told him her name, told him that she was French, that in England she was friendless, and that of what little she possessed she had been robbed by the man whom he had seen attack her, a man whom she had never seen before, and this was all that he knew about her. He wanted to know more, but he sat before her wondering how to phrase his questions. In spite of his curiosity he would have deferred them had it been possible, but it was not possible, and he broke the silence timidly, for as he spoke she looked at him full in the face with her dark eyes. Miss Boo Chafin, if you are strong enough to allow of it. As I said, sir, I am well. I must, with your permission, ask you a few questions. He hesitated, almost confused under her steady gaze. I am presuming that you would rather reply to me than to be questioned by a police officer. I do prefer it, sir. Then, said the doctor, this man who so murderously attacked you, you can tell nothing about him? Nothing, sir, I know nothing. Absolutely nothing? Absolutely. You do not know his motive? Ah, sir, you forget. He robbed me. True, true, the doctor returned, a slight flush tinting his cheeks, for he fancied that he detected a mocking gleam in her eyes, a suspicion of a smile curving her lips. True, I had forgotten, pray pardon me, he said, but the attack was so violent, the blow so savage, the weapon must have been so keen, that it is almost impossible to connect it with a mere attempt to commit a paltry robbery. I thought, and the police thought, that it was a case of intended murder. Ah, sir, they are clever, your police, but they sometimes make mistakes. Is it not so? Dr. Bradnell's face flushed crimson. Was she laughing at him? It looked like it. He was taken aback, disconfident. He did not know how to go on, but she gave him no chance, for she spoke herself, emphasizing her words by rapid gestures and much energetic waving of her white hands. Listen, then, sir, this is all I know, that this man followed me. Why, I have no idea, that he came upon me suddenly in the solitary street and asked me for money, that, when I refused, he tore my purse away, that, as I seized his arm and screamed, he wretched it free and struck me with what you tell me was a dagger. I know no more but what you tell me, nothing. George Bradnell, listening and looking, believed after all his own fancy was, but a fancy. The theory of the sergeant and the inspector was only a theory, a mere empty possibility, unsupported by fact. He abandoned both ideas forthwith. Miss Butchafin, could you recognize this man? I think not. I am, sure not. She shook her head, her eyes fixed musingly upon the fire. It was dark. No, I could not recognize him. Nor could I, unfortunately. And yet you saw him? I saw him, yes, but only well enough to know that he was young, tall and dark, and such a description would apply equally well to a hundred men within a stone's throw of the house at the present moment. True, admitted Alexia Butchafin, calmly. Since you can give me absolutely no clue, I am afraid that the chances of capturing him, particularly after the lapse of a month, are so small as to be worth nothing. Less than nothing, she assented, it would be better to abandon the endeavour. I am afraid that is what will have to be done, from sheer lack of groundwork to work upon. But it is horrible, said the doctor, rising with an unusual display of excitement. Absolutely horrible to think of this scoundrel's going, Scott Free. It is admirable that such things should be possible in the heart of a great city such as this. A smile parted the girl's lips, but it did not light up her drooping eyes. The smile seemed to imply that such a city held secret, stranger things than that. Dr. Brudnell did not see the smile. He was a clever man, but it would have been far beyond his fathoming if he had seen it. He returned to his chair and sat down again. In asking my questions, Miss Butchafin, I have forgotten yours. I assume that you wish to ask me some. Yes, she looked straight into his eyes again, and her slender hands were class firmly together. He fancied he detected an expression of doubt and anxiety in her glance. Sir, I have said that I am almost strong. You know that I am so. It follows then that I shall be able soon to leave here. Yes, it certainly followed that such an event would take place. The doctor acknowledged it, but at the very thought he experienced a strange sense of loss. She was so young, so beautiful, so friendless. Where would she go? What would she do? He was silent, and waited for her to continue speaking. It seemed that she drew courage from his look, for after she had glanced at him with eager scrutiny, she went on abruptly. I shall be able to leave, but I do not desire it. I am alone. I am friendless, penniless. Dr. Brutnell, I beg you, let me remain. Remain? he echoed in bewilderment. Yes, why should I not? I have been a governess. It was to be a governess that I came to this England of yours. It is a governess that you require for the children, your nephews and niece. Your housekeeper told me so, but a little while ago. I should be industrious. I could teach them well. Suffer me, then, to remain. The doctor hesitated, feeling uneasy, astonished, puzzled. Did she mean it? Did she fully realize what she was doing? She, young, beautiful, talented, in pleading to be tied down to the dull routine of a nursery governess. Did she remember that, beneath his roof, her position might be questioned by carping feminine tongues? He remembered it, not for his own sake, but for hers, but he only answered, overcoming his first feeling of surprise. But, my dear young lady, you must be perfectly aware that your attainments are far beyond those required for the teaching of such young children as these. Ah, sir, yes. But are beggars, then, choosers? Dr. Brutnell got up, walked to the window, and back again. It is a fact, he said slowly, that in London you have no friends. Yourself, she replied, and beyond? No one. Then, until you wish to leave, or until some more suitable and congenial sphere of work is opened for you, remain, my child. George Brutnell, speaking thus, had forgotten her beauty, her queen-like dignity, and remembered only her youth and helplessness. He went downstairs with an odd feeling, thinking how quickly, with what almost disconcerting rapidity she had, after her point was gained, recovered that icy composure of manner, remembering, too, how cold and lifeless her hand had laid, in his, when she gave it, insane good-night. But he was glad that she was going to stay. He had that curious sense of relief from tension, which is the result of anxiety removed, as though to protect her, to be friend and keeper-safe, were an object which had long lain near his heart. He was a little astonished, but he explained his feeling to himself. She was too young, and far too beautiful to live friendless, in the modern Babylon called London. He rang for Mrs. Jessup, and explained to that excellent woman this new phase of affairs. Mrs. Jessup, respectfully listening, received the news in a manner which could hardly be termed gracious, but prudently gave but small expression to her opinions. Mrs. Jessup's situation in the doctor's household was a very comfortable one, and she did not desire to lose it. But Mrs. Jessup's eyes were as keen as those of most women, in fact which she often insisted upon when talking to various confidential friends, so keen indeed that they sometimes described things which did not exist. At present, however, Mrs. Jessup merely told herself that, if Miss Bucchiffin had not been quite so handsome, her chance of remaining in her present quarters would not have been by any means so great. Mrs. Jessup, having formed this acute conviction, walked out of the dining room, and went down to her snug-sitting room, where, sitting down by the fire, she fell to darning a tablecloth while she thought things over. She had arrived at a conclusion that would have astonished her master, and she chanced to want more cotton, and rose to get it from her work-box, and among the reels and hangs of tape she saw something that astonished her. I declare, said Mrs. Jessup to herself, if I haven't forgot to give it to her after all, it was the only thing which had been found upon Alexia Bucchiffin, the tiny roll of paper, covered with its grotesque red characters, and tied with its piece of faded silk, rather ashamed of her forgetfulness and neglect, the housekeeper took it and went upstairs at once to the new governess's room. Alexia was sitting by the fire, almost as Dr. Brettnell had left her, her chin drooping upon her hands, her face almost hidden by her hair. She started at Mrs. Jessup's entrance, flung back the black tresses, and looked up. What is it? I am sure I am very sorry, Miss, Mrs. Jessup faltered, finding herself forced into somewhat reluctant respect before the bright gaze of the imperious eyes, and I hope you'll excuse my forgetfulness. I quite forgot until just this moment to give you this. For a moment the girl stared languidly at the extended hand. Then, with a cry springed suddenly from her chair, seized the little packet and pressed it passionately to her lips and to her breast. Ah! she cried. He did not take it. He did not take it. He did not take it. Incoherently repeating the words and redoubling her strange caresses. Take it, Miss, exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Jessup. Why, what should he want to take it for, the murdering villain? And how could he take it, seeing that it was fast inside the bosom of your gown? Go! cried Alexia, pointing to the door with an imperious gesture. Leave me to myself. The housekeeper went with the impression that Miss Butchafon had fallen upon her knees beside her chair, and that she was sobbing harsh, suffocating sobs beneath the shining veil of her streaming hair. Peace returned to the doctor's household. The children were calmed, manageable. They stood in awe of their governess. But they liked her. In the staid Cannonbury house, Mrs. Butchafon was popular. Her name was the only stumbling block. Her pupils could not pronounce it. The servants blundered over it, and Mrs. Jessup declared it heathenish. By slow degrees it was dropped, and she became merely Madame Waselle. Children, said Miss Butchafon abruptly, you have been good today, and it is fine. We will go out. The children engaged in turning their nursery into a very fair imitation of pandemonium, and in driving the unhappy nursemaid, nearly mad, stopped their various operations at these words from their governess as she entered, and stared at her, partly perhaps because they were not conscious of having been less troublesome than they usually were. But more because of her last sentence. Did Madame Waselle really say we will go out? She had been their governess for six weeks now, and during all that time had not once been outside the street door. Do you mean you'll take us, cried Tom, the eldest, and the readiness tongueed? Shant go with Ellen, I shant, muttered floss, sulkily. Nasty Ellen won't go with Ellen, whimpered Maggie, with a thumb in her mouth. You will all go with me, and Ellen, said Alexia. Quietly, beginning with her deaf fingers to remove grubby pinaffores and brushed tumbled hair, will you get ready, Ellen, and do not waste time, please, or we shall lose the best part of the afternoon. Ellen departed willingly. She was not sure that she liked Madame Waselle, but there was no doubt that she intensely detested her daily task of taking the three troublesome brats for their walk. If Madame Waselle liked to try it, well, Ellen only breathed a fevering wish that she might like it. That's all. Miss Butchafin, making great haste over the toilet of her pupils, had them ready and was ready herself before Ellen, and filled up the spare time by pacing the hall from end to end as she waited. Not hastily, the perfect grace of her every motion was too complete for haste, not even impatiently, for the set expression of her face never changed, and no flush of excitement tinted the ivory pallor of her cheeks. If her eyes were a little brighter, a little wider open than usual, it was very little. Mrs. Jessup, passing through the hall as the governess and pupils waited, confessed to herself, with reluctant honesty, as she looked at the stately young figure in its plain dark dress, that there was no denying that Madame Waselle did look like a queen. It was the beginning of May, and, for a wonder hot and bright enough, almost for July, the afternoon sun shone down warm and brilliant, as Alexia stepped out into its glare, she stopped and almost staggered, put her hand to her throat, while she shivered violently. The round eye made, watching, was quite sympathetic. No wonder she felt odd, poor young lady, remembering what had happened to her the last time she was out. Where shall we go? demanded Tom, tugging at Alexia's hand. Want to go and see Mrs. Leslie? murmured Maggie. I'm going to look at the shops, declared Floss, with emphasis. I can spin my shilling if I want to, Uncle George said. No, no, not today, murmured the governess quickly. Listen, children, the shops you can see any day. Tomorrow perhaps, but today we will go somewhere else. Where else? demanded Floss, critically, with a fond look at the shilling which he had drawn out of his knickerbocker pocket. Into the park, said Alexia, we will all ride there in a tram car. You will like that, Finsbury Park? questioned Tom. Oh, all right, I don't mind. Only I say, let's go up to the water where the ducks are. Yes, let's, added Floss, restoring the shilling to his pocket. Want some buns to feed them with, poor things? murmured Maggie with pathetic intonation. Yes, you shall go to the water and have the buns, said Alexia. She had been walking rapidly all this time, almost too rapidly for the little feet trotting beside her, and did not pause or speak until they reached Highbury Corner, which was more crowded and busy than usual this warm afternoon. A tram car was waiting, and she hurried her charges into it, taking no heed of Tom's desire to sit where he could see the horses, or if Floss's loudly expressed determination to ride on the roof. She took her seat and, leaning back, drew her black gossamer veil tightly over her face, and closed her eyes, seeming to become totally oblivious of her surroundings. Ellen, sitting with Maggie on her knee, distracted by Tom's ceaseless questions upon the one side, and by Floss's incessant demands to be put on the roof upon the other, felt a little sulky and injured. Really it was too bad of Madame Waselle. If she came out with the children, she might at least take her share in amusing and keeping them quiet. Ellen, at any rate, was not sorry when the park gates were reached. A plentiful supply of buns was procured, and the children, with shrill screams and whoops of delight, started off for the ducks and the water. Oh dear! cried the nursemaid, quite dismayed at suddenly finding herself alone with the governess. They'll lose themselves, Madame Waselle. There are such a many other children about. We shall never find them. Keep them in sight, then, said Alexia. Follow them, Ellen. You had better not wait for me, my headaches, and I cannot walk fast. But we shall lose you, too, Madame Waselle, demerit the girl, hesitatingly. No, no. I will follow you slowly. Go. They may fall into the water, if you linger. Miss Maggie's nigh, sure to, with the buns, said the girl, taking the alarm, and without any more loitering, she darted after the runaways. Alexia did not follow. For a moment she stood on the broad gravel walk, looking about her. Groups of figures were scattered about the smooth turf. Young ladies with novels, old ladies with crochet and poodles, nurses. The girl looked, not at, but around, and beyond them. Her great eyes seemed to be searching, as they were surprised at not seeing something, and yet dreading to see it. Then their expression changed. For a moment her figure swayed. The next she was walking gracefully, slowly, languidly toward a rustic seat, which stood upon the smooth green sport in a somewhat lonely spot. It stood at an angle formed by two flower beds, and was backed by a clump of shrubbery. Upon it there was one figure seated, that of a man. The governess approached this figure slowly. A middle-aged man, loosely dressed, hair turning gray, dark complexioned, with a scar on his cheek. A scar such as a slash with a keen-edged knife might have made. She approached and passed him. She did not look at him. He did not look at her. He appeared to be quite absorbed in absently cutting and fashioning a rough stick, with the aid of a large clasp knife. He gazed before him abstractly, brushed the splinters of wood from his knee, and laid the knife down upon the seat beside him. The edge of the blade uppermost. The girl shuddered. The ivory pallor of her cheeks grew gray beneath her veil. She passed on round the clump of bushes and returned. The man had abandoned his whittling, and, with his chin upon his hand, whistled as he looked down at the grass at his feet. His right hand played absently with the open knife. Now the edge was upward, now downward, now he half closed it. Then opened it wide again. Alexia Butchiffin's breath came rapidly. One violent throb of her heart almost suffocated her. But graceful, upright, stately, she passed the seat as though it were vacant. She did not appear to glance at the man sitting there, toying with the knife, and whistling under his breath. She passed him, and, as she did so, her gloved hand made a swift motion, and a white object gleamed upon the turf behind her. A paper had fluttered from her fingers and lay close to the rustic seat. Tom, Floss, and Maggie, flinking pieces of bond to voracious ducks, were delighted, far too absorbed to remember their governess, and Ellen, finding herself fully occupied in keeping their hats on their heads, and themselves outside the railings that surrounded the lake, had also forgotten Miss Butchiffin completely. The girl was quite startled when she saw the tall dark figure suddenly beside her, the great bright eyes shining through the black veil, and how pale she was. Her cheeks were quite white. Lord Madam Waselle, she cried, with loud voice sympathy. How bad you do look! I'm tired, said Alexia abruptly. Children, are you ready to go? Ready? Why, we ain't had half a walk, demured Tom. I'm hungry, exclaimed Floss, tugging at Miss Butchiffin's gown. Maggie went and threw all the buns to the ducks, she did. Little stupid. You're tory, I never. You eaten to yourself, you did. Maggie declared, intimately. Use a greedy boy, a did-full greedy boy. Isn't he a greedy boy, Madam Waselle? Never mind, we'll get more buns as we go out, said Alexia. Come now, children, I'm tired, my headaches. We will come some other time, to moral perhaps, and stay longer. Come now. They walked away from the water, and gained the broad path leading to the gates. Alexia slackened her pace, and, releasing Floss's hand, but still retaining Maggie's, fell slightly behind, sauntering slowly, playing with the buttons of her cloak, keeping her eyes fixed straight before her. They were passing a seat close to the edge of the path, upon which a man was sitting, a middle-aged, loose-jointed man with gray hair, a bright object lay at his feet, a small ball of gorgeous tints. The child saw it, uttered a delighted cry, and struggled to release her hand. It was released, and she started to pick up the prize. It was hardly intergrasp when she screamed out, frightened, for the man with the gray hair had taken hold of her arm, and was speaking to her, not roughly, although his voice was harsh and stern. My little one, see, the lady has dropped this paper, give it to her, and, as for this bobble, take it, go. He released her. The child was scared, but she held in one hand the paper he had given to her, in the other the gay-colored ball. He pointed preemptively after the tall retreating figure of Alexia Butchiffin, and frightened at his frowning face, the child darted toward ma'am Zell. Ma'am Zell, ma'am Zell, she tugged at the governess's dress, at her hand. Look what he gave me, holding up the ball. Nice, nice man, very nice. Floss sent, have it, he sent. Floss, a giddy boy, he dived me for myself. Oh, and yes. With a sudden remembrance of something less absorbing than the ball, she held up the paper, a mirror-folded scrap. Alexia seized it eagerly, held it fast in her hands, asked almost inaudibly. Who gave it to you, child? Him did. You dropened it. Him, said the child, turning round to point. Then she cried up blankly. Oh, him's gone. Miss Butchiffin glanced behind her hastily, the seat by which the gay-colored ball had lain was empty. She opened the paper and read within it, written in a blood-red color. The run word absolved. Dr. Brutnell found his nephews and niece unusually excited and talkative when, as was his custom, he came up after dinner to see them in Miss Butchiffin's pleasant sitting room. The rides in the tram-cars, the park, the buns, and the ducks were enlarged upon in turn, and then Maggie produced her ball, and plunged into such broken and lavish brazes of the very nice men that the doctor looked at the governess for enlightenment. A gentleman in the park, sir, gave her the ball, explained Miss Butchiffin gravely, and zoo a letter, cried Maggie, and also returned me a paper that I had dropped, amended Alexia. I see. Well, don't smash more windows with the ball than you can help, said the doctor, putting his niece down upon her feet. He rose and approached the stately young governess, standing beautiful in the light of lamp and fire. One hand drooping at her side, the other lying upon the marble of the mantelpiece, hardly whiter and hardly colder. George Breknell had begun to think that her coldness and gravity suited her beauty. Laughter blushes dimples would have spoiled it. Her frigid manner did not repel him now. It had a charm for him which no warmth and graciousness could have had, and yet, perversely, he longed intensely to see her both kind and sweet. How beautiful she was! He glanced at her reflected face in the mirror, and winced and frowned and bit his lip. Seeing his own beside it, a small, plain, dark, clean, shaven man, he was her very anthesis. Intellectual-looking, pleasant, refined, he might perhaps claim to be considered, but how utterly painfully unattractive he must be to her. I am glad to hear that you have been out, Madam Wasell, he said kindly. The day was so fine, it tempted me, replied Alexia. A very good thing the confinement was telling upon you, resumed the doctor. Let me advise you to try and get out once at least every day. I shall do so, sir, with your permission. Now. Now that the first plunge is taken, he remarked good-humoredly. Well, that is wise. Don't go too far, or let these youngsters trouble you too much either out of doors or in, and you will soon feel the benefit. You are very good, sir, murmured the governess, but I am quite well, indeed quite strong. You must let me be the best judge of that, Madam Wasell. I am afraid you have overtaxed your strength today. You are looking tired. I am not so, indeed. Not at all too tired to play, if you desire it. Thank you, Madam Wasell, said the doctor simply. There was a piano in the room, a tolerable one, and Alexia moved slowly toward it and sat down. It had become quite an institution, this half-hours playing which she gave the doctor when he came upstairs to bid the children good-night. He was disappointed if, by any chance, she missed it, perhaps because he hardly saw her at any other time, and because it was something to be able, from his distant seat, to watch her as she played, he learned her attitudes, her expressions, the poise of her head, the curve of her full throat by heart at these times. He did not care for music, and had no knowledge of the air she played, but he knew that he had heard no playing like hers, the magic of her fingers made the instrument speak. Thinking her now, he did not leave the room as usual, but lingered even after the children had said good-night, and gone to bed. Alexia looked at him questioningly, and he began to speak awkwardly as she saw, but with how much reluctance she did not suspect. Madam Wazel, you will pardon my recalling it, but you recollect when you first expressed a wish to remain here? Yes, she spoke quite quietly, but her eyes involuntary widened and her lips parted. She put her hand to her bosom, felt the stiffness of paper there, and then the hand fell at her side again, and she sat looking at the fire. You recollect, resumed George Brudnell, with a reluctant troubled glance at her averted face, that I told you then how perfectly aware I was that the post you wished to fill was completely below your capabilities, that in it you would be thrown away in short, and that at the best it could only be considered as an occupation for you until something better should offer. I remember, sir, the doctor hesitated. That, sir, with its stiffness, its cool formal respect, jarred upon him more and more day by day, and she hardly ever failed to use it. He was too diffident to remonstrate with a few gay words, as a more confident, easy man would have done, and sheafed under it in silence. I'm happy to tell you that something has offered. It was a lie, and he knew it. The thought of losing her, cold and statuistic as she was to him, made him miserable, filled his heart with a keen pain, a pain which had brought very near the inevitable revelation that he was bound to make to himself. Alexia raised her head and looked at him, but she did not speak. He went on. It is in the family of one of my patients, not as a governess, but as a companion to his wife. They are wealthy, and she is refined, cultivated, and kind-hearted woman. You could, I think, hardly fail to be comfortable with her, if you care to accept the post. He paused again, but finding her still silent went on. That you would be upon terms of perfect equality, I need not say. This lady, Mrs. Lattimer, would like to see you, if you care to think further of it. Alexia looked into his face with her great somber eyes. Sir, do you then wish me to leave here? Wish, he echoed. Was there really a sorrowful, almost reproachful intonation in her voice? He was foolish enough to fancy so, weak enough to encourage this sudden rapid beating of his heart. Because if not, she went on gently, I would rather stay here, if I may. Madam Waselle, are you sure of that? Consider. Quite sure, I am comfortable. Here it is home. You have been so kind to me. Ah, sir, do not send me away. She spoke intreatingly, eagerly, and to herself she added, pressing her hands again upon her breast. If he sends me from this house, I am lost. My child, said George Brydnell simply, again remembering only how young she was as he spoke to her thus protectingly, stay if you wish, and as long as you wish, you shall leave only when you yourself desire it. I shall not do that, murmured Alexia softly, and then, having no further excuse for remaining, he went away. The doctor fell into a reverie before his study fire presently, and forgot the book upon his knee. He had the pleasant consciousness of an uncongenial task, consciously performed, and without its anticipated unwelcome results, being left behind. It was not an idea of his own which had caused him to inquire among his patients for a suitable situation for Alexia Butchiffin, but the hints, and then downright urgings, of his friend Mrs. Leslie. Both she and Kate Merritt had seen the governess, for in her kindness of heart the elder lady had paid more than one visit to Laura's children. Mrs. Leslie had been astonished at Alexia's beauty and statelyness, sympathetic and questioning over her story, and, upon hearing that she was to remain in the doctor's house, had been amazed. A conventional-minded woman with all her kindness of heart, Mrs. Leslie had been shocked. Perhaps she might not have been so, had there been no scandalized and indignant influence upon her own side. But Kate had been excessively vulnerable upon this incipient fulfillment of her predictions, and had let her sister have very little peace indeed. Finally Mrs. Leslie had summed up the whole case to the doctor by assuring him that it would never do. Well, it would have to do, he decided, when he roused himself sufficiently to know what he had been thinking about. The girl should stay if she preferred it. That was certain, in spite of all the opinions in Christendom. He rather enjoyed this outrage upon the priorities, forgetful altogether, that the same thought had been in his own mind. He was glad to know that she was tranquil and safe. Nothing more. Consciously. Yet.