"Yes, I'm getting rid of all the big things by degrees," replied the Colonel, "the bullock, bandy, and piano and victoria; I advertised them, and got my price," and as he announced this gratifying fact he seemed to swell with triumph. It was true that he had obtained double their value for his shabby, worn-out possessions, and had administered severe disappointments to various harmless and deluded people; in whose nostrils the very name of Wilkinson stinks until the present day. "I am sending some refreshments with Angel," he continued with a gust of generosity, "hard-boiled eggs, lemonade, and biscuits. You will see that I get the bottles and basket back from Bombay, won't you—like a good fellow?" "It will be rather difficult," rejoined the good fellow, wondering if the avaricious wretch, who grudged the value of a few annas, would also require the egg-shells. "But I'll see what can be done." After a few words respecting luggage, labels, tickets, and, above all, an early start, the men parted. Gascoigne strolled back to his quarters, a prey to some anxious thoughts. What passion was embodied in the child's puny embrace, and was it to be, as Shafto predicted, a millstone about his neck as long as ever he lived? There was no blinking the fact, that he had accepted a serious charge. Angel was totally apart from other little girls of her age who cared for chocolates and dolls. She was only interested in human puppets, in the serious things of life, her feelings and emotions far transcended her years. She was a child in a thousand, for good or evil. Clever, resolute, unscrupulous, secret, yes, she was all that, but she was also devoted, unselfish, and faithful. Her future would be a matter of profound anxiety; fortunately the thread of her fate lay in no hand save his own. CHAPTER XIII ANGEL'S WINGS ARE CLIPPED LADY AUGUSTA GASCOIGNE was the daughter of a marquis, the widow of a baronet, and our little Angel's grandmamma. She lived in a small house in Hill Street, with her daughter Eva, a plain, awkward, distressingly shy woman of seven-and-thirty, who remained on her parents' hands as a hopelessly unmarketable article, when her two younger sisters had made brilliant matches, and covered their chaperon with glory. But Eva's sole suitor was an ineligible, who had been dismissed with indignation and contumely, and as Miss Gascoigne disliked society and dress, she had subsided into genteel obscurity—her mother's housekeeper and drudge.