"Oh, Phil!" she cried in a voice of intense anguish. "Don't say it—I'm not—I'm not—and I'm going away to-morrow, and you are angry with me. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" And she wrung her tiny hands in a wild frenzy of grief. "It is certainly time you went home, Angel," he returned steadily, "and if you love me, as you say, I implore you to play no more of these monkey tricks. I hate treacherous, underhand ways. Think of all the damage you did. You destroyed what must have cost a great deal of money." "But, Phil, you don't understand," she pleaded, and tears rained down her face; "I did all for mummy, my own mummy, and now"—her voice rising to a wail—"she is dead, and you are angry—oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" She flung herself downwards on the sofa in the abandonment of her grief, and buried her head in the cushion. "Come now, Angel," said her cousin, stooping over her, "don't cry like this—your secret has given me an unexpected shock, and shown me a side of your character that—frightens me—but," as her sobs shook her, "sit up and dry your eyes, little girl. As this is our last evening, I will say no more. You will be good, won't you?" he whispered, stroking her hair. "Yes, yes, if you will love me," and she raised herself and looked at him with piteous, entreating eyes. "All right, then," he agreed, "that's a bargain. I will love you if you are good. Hullo, here comes Colonel Wilkinson." "Oh, then," starting up, "we must say good-bye." Gascoigne sat down beside the child, and was about to stoop and kiss her, when she flung her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to his with the passion of a desolate, forlorn creature who was parting, perhaps for ever, with her only friend. Her action was the more surprising, since she was a child who recoiled from endearments, and coldly turned away her face when ladies would have caressed her. As suddenly as she had embraced her cousin, she released and pushed him from her with violence and ran out of the room. Her stepfather, who encountered Angel in the doorway, now advanced, rubbing his hands complacently. "So she's quite broken down, I see. That's just her one redeeming point—her affection for you. She has no feeling for anyone else. Just fancy, she never expressed the smallest regret at being parted from her dear little brothers, and when the ayah said, 'This is the last time you will ever have tea together,' she tossed her head and said, 'So much the better.' Can you imagine such appalling heartlessness? I tell you candidly, Gascoigne, that you will have your hands full." "I think not," rejoined her visitor; "not in the sense you mean—I suppose you will be leaving before long?"