"Oh, yes," and she gazed up at him with swimming eyes. "Of course—you are my cousin Philip—but you don't live with me, and I am so miserable," she faltered. "The servants push me about, and the children pinch me, and Colonel Wilkinson calls me a liar and—a little devil." Here she broke down and, resting her head on her skinny arms, sobbed hysterically. "He did not mean it, Angel," protested her cousin. "I am sure Colonel Wilkinson was not in earnest; he is a kind-hearted man, and looks the soul of good humour." "_Looks!_" she flashed out furiously. "Yes, and he is good-humoured with the children, but you should see him when the bearer brings his account, or when a shop bill comes in. I wish you saw his looks then! And he hates me. Only this morning he said I was a viper on his hearth and a curse. Oh," with another outburst, "I wish I was dead—like my own father." Gascoigne dismounted hastily and putting his hand upon her shoulder, said, "Come, Angel, this is very bad. You are a silly child, and imagine things—it's all the hot weather, and you are feeling a bit slack and out of sorts. You will soon be up in the hills, gathering pine cones and orchids." "No, indeed I shan't," she rejoined, as she raised her head and confronted him with an expression of despair on her small tear-stained face. "Mother says she can't afford it this year. She is going to send baby to Mrs. Browne, but we must all stay down. Oh, how I hate Ramghur," and her eyes roved over their brick-coloured, dusty surroundings, "I wish I was dead." "My poor Angel! this is melancholy news. Why should you cut yourself off at the age of nine? I hope you have a long and merry life before you." "Why should I live?" she demanded fiercely, "no one wants _me_." "Don't you think your mother wants you?" "No," she answered breathlessly in gasps, "she has the children—she would never miss me. They went off in the bullock bandy, so dressed up and noisy, Pinky in mother's own blue sash, all going to enjoy themselves, and not one of them even looked back. The servants are at a funeral, and I've been alone the whole evening." This pitiful tale was illustrated by a pathetic little face streaming with tears. "Now then, listen to me, Angel," said the young man, impressively, "I believe you've been running about in the sun, and have got a touch of fever, and besides, you take things too much to heart." "No I don't," she answered passionately, "everyone says I have no heart—and no one cares for me." "That's bosh," he protested, "your mother cares—and so do I." Here he stooped, and dried her tears with his own handkerchief. "Do you really, cousin Phil?" suddenly seizing his hand with her hot nervous fingers. "Really—not make-believe?" "I never make-believe—really." "Then—I am—glad," and now the elf clasped his arm, and looked up at him fixedly, "for I _do_ love you, as much as mother, yes, and more than the whole big world."