They both smiled, and Cecil, seeing that little would be gained by discussing the matter, got up and led them toward the drawing-room, her pale, brave face contrasting curiously with Gwen’s rosy cheeks and rebellious little air. Mr. Boniface sat talking to the new-comer kindly enough. They both rose as Cecil and the children entered. “This is my daughter,” said Mr. Boniface. And Cecil shook hands with the ex-prisoner, and looked a little anxiously into his face. He was rather a pleasant-looking man of five-and-thirty, and so much like Lance that she could not help feeling kindly toward him. She hoped that the children would behave well, and glanced at Gwen nervously. But Gwen, who was a born flirt, speedily forgot her dislike, and was quite willing to meet the stranger’s advances half-way. In two minutes’ time she was contentedly sitting on his knee, while Lance stood shyly by, studying his father with a gravity which was, however, inclined to be friendly and not critical. When he had quite satisfied himself he went softly away, returning before long with a toy pistol and a boat, which he put into his father’s hands. “What is this?” said Mr. Grantley. “It’s my favorite toys,” said Lance. “I wanted to show them you. Quick, Gwen, run and find your doll for father.” He seemed touched and pleased; and indeed they were such well-trained children that any parent must have been proud of them. To this ex-convict, who for years had been cut off from all child-life, the mere sight of them was refreshing. He seemed quite inclined to sit there and play with them for the rest of the evening. And Cecil sat by in a sort of dream, hearing of the new home that was to be made for the children in British Columbia—where land was to be had for a penny an acre, and where one could live on grapes and peaches, and all the most delicious fruits. Then, presently, with many expressions of gratitude for all that had been done for the children, Mr. Grantley took leave, and she led the little ones up to bed, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Boniface to go out into the garden and tell Roy and Sigrid what had passed. “How does Cecil take it?” asked Sigrid anxiously. “Very quietly,” was the reply; “but I am afraid she feels losing them so soon.” Frithiof, with an uncomfortable recollection of what had passed in the garden, doubted if Mrs. Boniface fully understood the depth of Cecil’s feelings. He left them talking over the drawbacks and advantages of colonial life, and went in to his translating; but though he forgot the actual cause, he was conscious all the time of a disturbing influence, and even while absorbed in his work, had an irritating sense that something had gone wrong, and that trouble was in the air. He went to bed and dreamed all night of Cecil. She haunted him persistently; sometimes he saw her leaning back on the garden seat, with the narcissus just falling from her hand, sometimes he saw her with the children clinging to her as they had done in the hall.