“No, not now! Not now! I will send for you when I want you,” Lady Sybil answered. “I will promise to send for you. And you will come,” she added with the same ring of triumph in her voice. “You will come!” For it was joy to her, even amid the satisfaction of her mother-love, to know that she had tricked her husband; it was joy to her to know that though she had taken all from the child and he had given all, the child was hers—hers, and could never be taken from her! “You will come! For you will not have me long. But,” she whispered, as the voices came nearer, “go now! Go now! And not a word! Not a word, child, as you love me. I will send for you when—when my time comes.” And with a last look, strangely made up of love and pain and triumph, Lady Sybil moved out of sight among the laurels. And Mary, drying her tears and composing her countenance as well as she could, turned to meet the intruders’ eyes. Fortunately—for she was far from being herself—the two persons who had wandered that way, did but pause at the end of the Kennel Path, and, murmuring small talk, turn again to retrace their steps. She gained a minute or two, in which to collect her thoughts and smooth her hair; but more than a minute or two she dared not linger lest her continued absence should arouse curiosity. As sedately as she could, she emerged from the shrubbery and made her way—though her breast heaved with a hundred emotions—towards the rustic bridge on which she saw that Lady Lansdowne was standing, keeping Sir Robert in talk. In talk, indeed, of her. For as she approached he placed the coping-stone on the edifice of her praises which her ladyship had craftily led him to build. “The most docile,” he said, “I assure you, the most docile child you can imagine! A beautiful disposition. She is docility itself!” “I hope she may always remain so,” Lady Lansdowne answered slily. “I’ve no doubt she will,” Sir Robert replied with fond assurance, his eye on the Honourable Bob, who was approaching the bridge from the lawns. Lady Lansdowne followed the look with her eyes and smiled. But she said nothing. She turned to Mary, who was now near at hand, and reading in the girl’s looks plain traces of trouble, and agitation, she contented herself with sending for Lady Louisa, and asking that her carriage might be called. In this way she cloaked under a little bustle the girl’s embarrassment as she came up to them and joined them. Five minutes later Lady Lansdowne was gone. * * * * *