Mr. Flinders began to make some explanation, which Miss Lestrange promptly checked. She asked his advice about a book, and somehow or other Leslie’s punishment remained the tutor’s blunder, though this was the first time he had ever heard of it. He had probably misunderstood something Miss Lestrange had said to him; she had often observed that she was not a lucid talker; there were certain advantages which Mr. Flinders had had, and she had not, and this made it such a comfort to listen to him! Possibly this was one of the occasions in which the disadvantages had told. After dinner Horace went upstairs to see his boy; there were traces of tears on the child’s face, and he looked pathetically like his dead mother. He flung his arms around his father’s neck and began to sob. Leslie had inherited Annette’s weak constitution; he was a highly-strung, delicate little boy. “Oh, daddy, don’t--don’t--don’t!” he sobbed. “Oh, please, dear daddy, don’t! I will be good if you won’t marry her!” His father’s face grew suddenly very stern; he had meant to be the first to tell his son about Edith. “My dear old chap,” he said tenderly, sitting down on the bed beside the boy. “Edith is such a jolly girl; you will like her. Why, she’s pretty and kind, and awfully fond of boys! You have no idea what fun we’ll have. She has asked you to go with her to-morrow to the Zoo.” “I have been to the Zoo,” said Leslie. A firm little line came around his mouth. It used to come round his mother’s when she meant to get her way and she did not find it easy. Horace had not seen it often enough to remember it. “Oh, daddy, don’t make me go with her; I want to go away with auntie--oh, I do want to go away with auntie!” The sobs began to shake him again. “I have always had auntie,” he cried. “You see, daddy, I’ve always had auntie!” “But, boy, you don’t want to go away from me?” asked his father. There was a moment’s constrained silence, and then the child dragged himself out of his father’s arms and threw himself face downwards on his pillow. “Yes, I do,” he muttered petulantly. “I won’t stay with this new woman! I do want to go away!” The lines of pain on Horace’s face deepened. His heart seemed to contract as he looked at the golden curls on the pillow, and remembered those long golden curls he had played with and kissed. For a moment he turned away, regretful, sick, and undesirous as the child himself of “this new woman.” Then his manhood reasserted itself, and he remembered that this was after all only a childish fit of ignorant tears. He was not angry with the child; it did not occur to him to ask him who had given him this cruel fear of Edith. There were a good many things that never occurred to Horace Lestrange. They might have been convenient things to do; possibly they might have made life easy and happy for him, only he did not do them, that was all; he could not make the child tell tales.