Wynyard, the handy man, packed up cases containing old Indian relics, such as faded photographs, horns, bear skins, khaki uniforms, Sam Brown belts, packets of tiger claws, and all sorts of rubbish dear to Mrs. Ramsay. Among the collection was a photograph album, aged at least thirty years, and considerably the worse for Indian rains and Ottinge damp. “I think this must be your father,” said Mrs. Ramsay, pointing to the old-fashioned carte-de-visite of a handsome man in Hussar uniform, “and this is your mother opposite,” indicating a pretty, dark-eyed girl holding up a puppy. “You see, she was fond of dogs, like you and me! Do you care to have them?” drawing them out as she spoke. “Yes, thank you most awfully, I should. It’s funny that I should come upon my people and hear so much of them in Ottinge of all the world! I don’t remember either of them, for my mother died when I was two years old, and my father was killed at polo--it killed her too--and then my sister and I were sent home.” “So you have a sister?” “I have very much a sister,” and he laughed; “she has all the family brains--and her own as well.” “I will not allow that, Mr. Wynyard; it was marvellous how, with a few hints from me, you threw yourself into a life before you were born. Isn’t it strange that I am the only one in Ottinge who knows your real name?” “Except Miss Morven,” he corrected. “You know he recognised me, and said ‘Wynyard.’” “Yes, but no doubt she believes he was wandering. You don’t wish your surname to be known here, do you?” “No, my christian name does as well.” “I must confess I wonder you remain! You are so young, and life here is deadly dull for such as you, with all the years and energies before you,” and she looked at him interrogatively. It was dusk; she was sitting in the deep drawing-room window, her slim figure silhouetted against the fading light. Wynyard had been nailing down some cases, and came and stood, hammer in hand, in the middle of the room. She knew perfectly well why he remained in the sleepy village; it was because Aurea Morven had glorified Ottinge. “I believe I know your secret,” she remarked suddenly. He made no reply. Mrs. Ramsay was no doubt thinking of Aurea, whilst he was dwelling on the bargain with his uncle. Should he tell her? They had of late been drawn so much to one another--she already knew half his story, and had just given him the photographs of his father and mother--her husband and his father had been like brothers--yes--he would! And there in the semi-dusk, leaning his hands on the back of a chair, in as few words as possible, he related his tale, and how he had made a solemn compact for two years, which compact he was bound to keep to the letter and the bitter end. “And it’s a good deal more bitter than I expected,” he concluded.