Queenie acquiesced, as the tall soldierly figure walked down to the gate to greet them. She liked the brown weather-beaten face, with its grizzled moustache and closely-cropped head, looking as though it were covered with grey bristles. "Good afternoon, ladies. I saw Miss Clayton just now, and she told me you were coming. Fine weather for the crops; I was just pottering among my geraniums. Sit down, both of you, while I go into the house and find my little woman; she's palavering with the maids somewhere." "Please don't hurry her, Captain Fawcett; we shall be very comfortable out here under this awning. Isn't this a delicious little garden? look at those roses and bee-hives. Bless you, the Captain's garden is his hobby; he spends the greater part of his time working here, and in his kitchen-garden. He has the greatest show of flowers for miles round." "Have they no children?" "They had one, a girl, but she died. I almost wish we had not brought Emmie; I think Alice was just twelve when she caught the fever. It is eight or nine years ago, but they have never got over it. Ah, there comes the Captain with his 'little woman.'" Queenie stifled an exclamation as she rose from her seat. Mrs. Fawcett was as tall as her husband,--a thin, long-necked woman, fully six feet high, and gaunt almost to scragginess. She had a worn, anxious-looking face; it was difficult to imagine it had ever been young or good-looking. The prominent teeth, high cheekbones, and scanty grey hair, told no tale of past beauty. It was a plain face, grown plainer with age. She looked like a caricature of her husband's taste beside his handsome old face and grand figure. Her hand-shake was almost masculine in its grasp, and her voice was harsh, but not ungentle; but both face and voice softened strangely at the first sight of Emmie. The husband and wife exchanged looks. "Do you see, Captain?" "Aye, aye, missus, I see." "Is this your little sister, Miss Marriott? Come to me, darling; how old are you?" "Twelve," repeated Emmie, looking up in her face with solemn blue eyes. Emmie rarely smiled with strangers. "Twelve; do you hear that, Joshua?" "Aye, aye, I hear it, little woman." "Just her age," repeated the wife hurriedly, laying her hand on his arm, while her eyes filled with tears. "Twelve years and three months," he repeated involuntarily. "And she has Alice's blue eyes too,--your own color, Captain." The girls had listened with silent sympathy to this brief interchange of sorrowful questioning; but now Emmie interrupted them. She drew closer to Mrs. Fawcett, and laid a hand confidingly on her lap. "Was Alice the name of your little girl? Cathy said you had one." "Hush, Emmie; come here to me, love;" but Emmie hung back from her friend's extended hand.