"Yes, poor darling; and only for you she would be destitute indeed. I have nothing to leave her but these," and Mrs. Wilkinson touched, as she spoke, her pearl necklace and bangles. "Her father was lavishly extravagant and gave me this," indicating a splendid diamond ring, "and though often hard up, I have never parted with it. I somehow felt that Angel had a claim on it. Let her have it when she is eighteen." "Certainly," he answered; "but I trust you may live to wear it yourself, Lena. Why should you not pull through?" "Oh, I don't know—I may—I may," she faltered; "but now I have told you my wishes I will not keep you. Good-bye," and she held out her hand, and as he took it she turned away her face and burst into low, agonising sobs. She had entirely exhausted her last reserve of strength. Mrs. Rattray now entered the room and beckoned the visitor out, saying: "Lena is completely overwrought; she has been talking too long, but she was so painfully anxious to see you—we could not refuse her." The trained nurse came forward, and as Mrs. Rattray dropped the curtain before the door of the sick-room, she looked up at Gascoigne interrogatively. "She wanted you to promise something," she said. "Yes; if she should die, I am going to take charge of Angel." The lady's face expressed the blankest amazement. "You," she repeated—"you. Why, you are only a boy yourself." "I am six-and-twenty, and seventeen years older than the child—a pretty good start." "Yes, now; but not much of a start when she grows up—and girls grow up so fast, once they enter their teens." "At present Angel is in single figures," he rejoined, "and small for her age—I think I shall be able to look after her." "Well, I must say you are very generous," exclaimed Mrs. Rattray, "and I'm sure you have set poor Lena's mind at rest. I admire you—no, you need not blush—for your Quixotism, but I think you have undertaken a thankless and a dangerous task." With these words Mrs. Rattray once more raised the purdah and disappeared. In the drawing-room Gascoigne found Angel all alone; her eyes looked dim; they had great purple marks round them, the result of weeping and wakefulness. Her wan little face seemed smaller than ever, but it was calm and tearless. She stood for a moment gazing intently at her cousin, and nursing her elbows, a favourite attitude. At last she said: "Cousin Philip, do you think she is going to die?" Her face convulsed as she asked the question, but she went on, "Answer me as if I were grown up." "I hope not," he replied; "your mother is very ill still, but a shade better than she was yesterday. We will hope for the best. Would you care to come out with me for a little turn?" But Angel shook her head impatiently, and darted away out of sight. * * * * *