"It is my intention," he said, "to place her in my mother's charge. She lives in London, alone. There my cousin will find a loving home and a second mother. Believing that you would naturally have some reluctance at parting with her, not knowing with whom and where she was going, I have brought my mother with me." Gideon glanced at the quiet, motionless figure seated on the bench outside, and then paced the room again. "Does she know?" he asked hoarsely. "She knows nothing," said Stephen. "My mother can trust me implicitly. She has long wanted a companion, and I have told her that I know of a young girl in whom I am interested." "You intend to keep her secret?" said Gideon. "Most sacredly," responded Stephen, with solemn earnestness. Gideon went to the door and opened it. "Wait," he said, and disappeared. CHAPTER XIII. Stephen rose softly and watched him from behind the window curtains until Gideon had vanished amongst the trees; then Stephen went out and smiled down upon his mother with the air of a man who had just succeeded in accomplishing some great work for the good of mankind at large. "Sorry to keep you waiting, mother," he said. "I have been making some arrangements with the worthy man, her father." Mrs. Davenant looked up with the nervous, deprecatory expression which always came upon her face when she was in the presence of her son. "It does not matter, Stephen; I am glad to rest. Where has the man gone? He--he--doesn't he look rather superior for his station, and why does he look so stern and forbidding?" "A life spent in solitude, away from the world, has made him reserved and cold," replied Stephen, glibly, "and, of course, he feels the parting from his daughter." "Poor man--poor girl!" murmured Mrs. Davenant. Stephen looked down at her with a contemplative smile, while his ears were strained for the returning footsteps of Gideon Rolfe. "Yours is a sweetly sympathetic nature, my dear. I can already foresee that the 'poor girl' will not long need anyone's sympathy. You are already prepared to open your arms and take her to your heart. Is it not so?" Mrs. Davenant looked up--just as if she wanted to see what he expected of her to say, and seeing that he meant her to say "yes," said it. "Yes, I shall be very glad to have a young girl--a good young girl--as a companion, Stephen. My life has been very lonely since you have been away." "And I may be away so much. But, mother, you will not forget what I said during our drive? There are special reasons why the girl's antecedents should not be spoken of. The friend who interested me in her wishes her to forget, if possible, everything concerning her early life." "I understand, Stephen." "And, by the way, do not allow any expression of astonishment to escape you if, when you see her, you feel astonished at her appearance or manner. Remember that she has spent all her life here, buried in the forest, her sole companions a woodsman and his wife."