"Forget him? Oh! no, never!" said Amy, catching up the child, who immediately climbed from his mother's arms on to Robert's knee and remained there; while his father, notwithstanding his jealousy, glanced proudly at his boy, and caressed both him and his mother. "Ah! you are just as fond of Bertie as I am," she said, as her husband drew her to his side. But even as she spoke she became conscious of a shadow between her and the light which streamed in through the large bay window of the dining-room; while Vavasour rose and held out his hand saying apologetically, "We did not hear the carriage drive up." "No, I could hardly expect you would, with so much to interest you within doors." Amy arose quickly as the voice struck her ear. "Frances! Miss Strickland!" she said. "Yes, the same. You look surprised. Did you not expect me?" "No," replied Amy, shortly. "It is quite an unexpected pleasure, and has surprised us both," returned Robert, as he noticed his wife's unusual manner. "It is my fault. I told Isabella not to mention I was coming," returned she. "Perhaps I wanted to see if you would be pleased, or recognise me; every one says I am so very much altered." "I see no difference," replied Amy, as Frances glanced straight at her. "There is none," she answered, and the tone went to Amy's heart with a nervous thrill. "And so this is your boy. What is he called?" "Robert," answered Amy, feeling for the first time a strange dislike at saying his pet name. But her husband was not so scrupulous. "We call him Bertie," he said. "And so will I. Come and make friends, Bertie. What lovely hair he has, so soft and curly. I suppose,--indeed I can see,--you are quite proud of the boy, Mr. Vavasour." "Mrs. Vavasour is, if I am not." "Of course. All mothers are of their first-born. Do not go so near the fire, Bertie. You make me tremble lest anything should befall you." What could happen to the child? Amy drew him further away still, then took him in her arms as if only there he was safe and shielded from all harm. When Frances left the room Amy sighed more deeply than before, yet scarcely knew why she felt so low and sad, or why Frances' appearance should have brought with it a nervous dread; save that in that long-ago time, which she had tried to bury and forget, Frances had been her bitterest enemy, and she could not but feel that her coming now was disagreeable to her, nay more, caused a sudden, nameless fear to arise in her heart; and now although Frances' words were friendly, yet Amy detected, or fancied she did--a lurking sarcasm in their tone. "I wish we were back at Somerton, Robert," she said. "Again!" exclaimed Robert, "now Amy, you deserve to be scolded for this. What an impatient little woman you are! Shall we not be home in a month?" "Ah! in a month;" sighed Amy again, as she drew her child nearer to her heart, while her heart whispered, "Can anything happen in a month?" CHAPTER VIII. GOING FOR THE DOCTOR.