“You are the most devoted of fathers,” laughed Lady Wynde. “We have been married but little over a year, and yet you have made two trips alone to Paris to see Neva. She must be a very paragon of daughters to cause her father to forget his bride.” Sir Harold’s fair cheeks flushed a little. “You forget,” he said, “that Neva was my especial charge from the hour of her mother’s death till I sent her to that Paris school. My love for you, Octavia, cannot lessen my love for her. I begin to think that I have done wrong in not bringing you two together before. I had a most pathetic letter from Neva before the holidays, begging to be allowed to come home, but at your request, Octavia, I denied her natural entreaty and compelled her to remain at her school. Even Madame Da-Caret, the head of the establishment, thought it singular that Miss Wynde should, alone of all the English pupils, spend her holidays at the deserted institution. And now to-day I received a letter from Neva asking if she was to come home for the Easter holidays. I am afraid I have not rightly treated my motherless child, Octavia. She has never seen you; never been at home since you became mistress here. I fear that the poor child will think her exile due to your influence, to speak frankly, dear, and that she will regard you with dislike and bitterness, instead of the trust and confidence I want her to feel in you. You are both so dear to me that I shall be unhappy if you do not love each other.” “There is time enough to form the acquaintance after Neva leaves school,” said Lady Wynde. “She is but a child yet.” “She is seventeen years old, Octavia. I have decided to have her home at Easter, and I hope you will take some pains to win her trust and affection. She will meet you half-way, dear.” “I am not fond of bread-and-butter school-girls,” said Lady Wynde, half frowning. “The neighborhood will be agape to see how I play the role of step-mother. And, to own the truth, Harold, I have no fancy to be called mother by a tall, overgrown girl, with her hair hanging down her back in two braids, and her dresses reaching to her ankles. I shall feel as old as Methuselah.” Sir Harold sighed, and a grave shadow settled down upon his square massive brows. “I hope that Neva will win her way to your heart, Octavia,” he remarked gently. “I thought it would look better if my daughter were to call her father’s wife by the endearing name of mother, but teach her to call you what you will. I have faith in your goodness of heart, my wife.” “Perhaps I am a little jealous of her,” returned Lady Wynde, with a forced smile. “You fairly idolize her--”