"Yes, I know," returned Waveney, softly; "and I am so very glad--glad for your sister, I mean. I should love to see Betty again. I am not like you, Mr. Chaytor; I have been a child-worshipper all my life. Oh, I know they are naughty sometimes, but they are so much nearer the angels than we are, and they are not such a long way off from heaven." "'Heaven lies about us in our infancy!' Are you a student of Wordsworth, Miss Ward?" But she shook her head. "I have read some of his poems," she returned, modestly. "But I am afraid I know very little good poetry." "That is a pity; but one can always mend a fault. At Easter I propose having a course of reading from Tennyson and Mrs. Browning. Ah, here we are at the Red House." "You will come in and have a cup of tea after your long walk," observed Waveney. "Miss Doreen is in town, but I know Miss Althea is at home." Then, after a moment's hesitation, Mr. Chaytor assented and followed her into the house. "My dear child, how late you are!" observed Althea, rather anxiously, as Waveney opened the library door. "I was getting nervous about you!" "I am afraid I am rather late," confessed the girl; "but, fortunately, I met Mr. Chaytor, and he has come in with me for some tea." Then there was no lack of welcome in Althea's face and voice. Fresh tea was ordered, and another supply of hot buttered scones, a big pine-log thrown on the fire; and as Thorold sat in his luxurious chair, with a glass screen between him and the blaze, with his little walking companion opposite him, and Althea's warm smile on them both, he had never felt himself more comfortable, or at his ease. CHAPTER XXIV. "LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED!" "Rainy and rough sets the day-- There's a heart beating for somebody; I must be up and away, Somebody's anxious for somebody." SWAIN. Mr. Ingram had once compared the English climate to unregenerated womanhood, and had declaimed on this subject in his own whimsical fashion at Cleveland Terrace, much to the delight of his young friend the humourist. "It is womanhood pure and simple, and unadulterated by civilisation," he continued, blandly, as he twisted his Mephistophelian moustache. "It is the savage mother, and no mistake, with all her crude grand humours. Sometimes she is benevolent, fairly brimming over with the milk of loving kindness. She has her sportive moods, when she bubbles over with smiles and mirth--a May day, for example--when she walks through the land as meekly as a garlanded lamb." "Hear, hear!" observed Noel, _sotto voce_; but Mollie, who was deeply impressed, frowned him down. Mr. Ingram paused, as though for well-deserved applause. He felt himself becoming eloquent, so he took up his parable again.