As yet he had only talked with Mrs. Sinclair of the past, and all that had come to them both since their last meeting years ago. She had told him of her life and failing health, so apparent to him that, as she talked, he had involuntarily taken her thin hands in his, and wished he had come to her sooner; and then he told her of himself and his children and his wife, who, whatever she might have been while living, had died a good true woman, and gone where neither a Rossiter nor Schuyler is preferred, but only they who have His name upon their foreheads. Of Godfrey he had spoken with all a father’s pride for his only son, saying he hoped that this trip would tone him down somewhat and make him more of a man and less of a wild, teasing boy; but of Edith he made no mention. Indeed, he had not given her a thought until he saw her come in on Godfrey’s arm, when there awoke within him a strange kind of interest in her, and an inexplicable feeling that in some way she was to affect him or his. He supposed her much younger than she was, and noticing Godfrey’s evident admiration he inly resolved to leave London very soon and take the lad out of harm’s way, if indeed any harm threatened him from this beautiful woman, who fascinated and attracted him as well. “Sister,” he said to Mrs. Sinclair, when dinner was over and they were alone together, “who is this Miss Lyle? She has a remarkable face.” Most women have a hobby, and Mrs. Sinclair’s was Edith, of whom she was never tired of talking. She had liked her from the first, and two years of intimate acquaintance had only increased her fondness for the girl, and for hours she would sit and ring her praises if she could but find a listener. So, now, when her brother said what he did, she began at once: “Yes, she is a remarkable person every way. She has been with me more than two years, and I like her better every day. Such a face and figure are rarely seen in this country, and her manners would become a royal princess; and yet she is only the daughter of a poor curate, who must have made a foolish marriage with one not his equal. I cannot endure the girl’s mother. I’ve never seen her but once, and then she impressed me very unfavorably, as if she was not real, you know. Edith must be like her father. He is dead, and the mother takes in lodgers.” “Ah,” and Colonel Schuyler’s voice was indicative of disappointment, but his next question was: “How old is this girl?” “Twenty-seven, I believe,” was the reply, “though she looks much younger.” “Yes, she does. I thought her about twenty,” Colonel Schuyler said, and with his fear for Godfrey removed, he arose and joined the young people, who had just come through a side door into the music room. “Edith,” Mrs. Sinclair called, “play something for my brother.”