And here came Phil at last, in dripping condition on a dripping horse—what a pair of drowned rats! As soon as he had changed his clothes Gascoigne appeared in the verandah, looked about, and said: "Hullo, where is Angel? I thought she was coming over to make tea?" "Oh, she has been here all right enough," rejoined his comrade grimly; "very much here. I believe she has departed. I saw her flying across the compound just now. Phil, that child, instead of making tea, has been making hay in your room." "Oh, has she?" he responded carelessly, as he lit a cheroot. "Well, she can't do much harm there." "I'm not so sure of that," retorted Shafto with tragic significance. "She found the photograph of one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen, and brought it out for information—awfully keen to know all about it." Gascoigne jumped up suddenly, and took the cigar out of his mouth. His face was stern as he looked fixedly at his friend. "Billy, this is some of your chaff." "I swear it's not," protested Shafto forcibly. "That prying imp was rooting in your despatch box. Ah!" he concluded in a significant undertone, as Gascoigne hurriedly left him. After a short absence his friend returned, and resumed his seat without one word. "I made her put it back," continued his companion. "I always knew that you'd be let in by that child, somehow." "No," rejoined the other; "I let myself in—as you call it." "You can't deny that she has made a rather brilliant beginning. Smashing up a new dogcart, unearthing your most sacred possession, and flaunting it round the house. What on earth are you going to do with her?" "I'm going to send her to school next week." "And afterwards?" "She will make her home with some nice family." "Nice prospect for the nice family," remarked Shafto. "And after she has quite done with the nice family?" "That is far enough ahead," replied Gascoigne with a touch of impatience. "Angel won't be grown up for years, and we may all be dead by that time." "Now, I call that a really cheerful way of looking at it. One thing is certain, whoever is dead, Angel won't weep. She has no more heart than a paving-stone." "Why do you say that?" demanded her cousin quickly. "Simply because it is patent to all the world that she has forgotten her mother already. She never mentions her name——" "That does not matter—that is no sign," argued her champion; "she thinks more of her mother than the whole Wilkinson family put together. The other morning, when there was a break in the rains and I was out early, I saw a small figure staggering over towards the cemetery, carrying a pot as large as herself. I kept behind, of course, and did not let her see me; it was Angel, taking a plant to her mother's grave. There's no stone up yet." "No, nor ever will be," supplemented Shafto. "The cemetery is more than a mile away," continued Gascoigne; "so you will allow that it was rather a big job for a child of her age."