“Will Mignon always love Bootles?” he asked. “Always,” was the confident reply. “Mignon will _always_ love Bootles.” And so in and because of his trouble the little child crept closer and closer into his heart, and drove out the greatest bitterness of his disappointment, and the clasp of her soft arms about his neck seemed to take away the sharpest sting of defeat. The touch of her baby lips upon his aching forehead—and it _did_ ache—brought him a larger measure of comfort than any living thing had power to do at that moment. If only he had known that Mignon was _her_ child! But Bootles was not the man to sulk with fate; if Miss Grace would not have him, no more was to be said, and no one but Mrs. Smith saw anything unusual between them. But trust Mrs. Smith. She walked into Miss Grace’s room and taxed her with it—taxed her in so friendly a way that the girl began to cry miserably. Mrs. Smith fumed. “It is absurd,” she cried, “to refuse such a man—such a position—such—such— Oh! it’s absurd. I have no patience with you. You will never have such a chance again—never.” “Oh, never,” she sobbed. “Why, then, throw it away? Let me go and tell—” “No; tell him nothing. I have already told him it is impossible. Oh, Mrs. Smith!” she cried, passionately, “do you think any woman in her senses would refuse him if she could help it? Not I, I assure you.” “It is inexplicable,” said Mrs. Smith, but she protested no further. So the next day they left Ferrers Court, Bootles driving them to the station. But it was all very different now—very different, too, from the last time he had driven them anywhere. There was no laughter, no joking, no promise to come again. He was not outwardly angry, not harsh nor hard in any way, but he was very polite; and politeness from him was heart-breaking. It was soon over when they reached the station—a few minutes of that kind of conversation which people make when they are waiting for a carriage or a train, as they said the passengers of the _London_ made while walking up and down quietly waiting for the end. There was a handshaking all round, the lifting of Bootles’s and Lacy’s hats, a fuss over Miss Mignon, and that was all. Miss Grace, on looking out of the carriage window with tear-dimmed eyes, saw that they were together, the child’s hand in his. Miss Mignon’s last words were yet ringing in her ears: “Bootles has gotted such a headache.” “Then Mignon must be very kind to him,” Miss Grace whispered. Ay, Miss Mignon had need to be kind, for Bootles had “gotted” such a heartache too! CHAPTER VIII. A CROWD of roughs, a lesser crowd of third-rate spectators, and a lesser gathering of fashionable ones were assembled on the Blankhampton racecourse, for it was the day of the Scarlet Lancer Steeple-chases.