"Dear, dear! what a mistake," ejaculated Miss Cosie, straightening her brown "ugly," in the depths of which the gentle little mouse face was almost buried from view, and trying to pat the big curls. "A child of that tender age ought to be with her mother. It reminds one of the child in Kings--or was it in Samuel?--who got sunstroke, or something of the kind, and cried, 'My head, my head,' and they carried him to his mother. Think if something of that kind happened to that dear child! her father would never forgive himself; but there, there, he does it for the best, poor dear." "The child frets after him, and is never happy away from him," replied Langley in a low voice, for Mrs. Fawcett's eyes had filled with tears, and she had taken Emmie's hand in hers. "Mrs. Chester is a nervous invalid; and one cannot judge in these cases," finished Langley in a deprecating voice. "True, my dear, true; but I am such an advocate of mother's right, as I often tell Kit; there is something so especially sacred in the claims of maternity. Bless you, I know all about their feelings as much as if I had a dozen children," continued the little woman, brightly. "Didn't I have a dear old mother myself, and Kit her very image, poor soul; and didn't she often say, 'Charlotte, my dear, you will know one day, please God, what a mother's feelings are'! And so I do, my dear; and so does every woman, married and single," finished Miss Cosie with a little burst, "as long as there are young things in the world needing our care." "You are right," returned Langley in a stifled voice; and just then the other waggonette passed, Ted cracking his whip and gesticulating boyishly. Nan was on her father's knee as usual, the little white sun-bonnet rested on his shoulder, the quiet dark eyes and rosy face full of a child's contentment. Garth received his guests at the entrance to the works, and did the honors of the place with great dignity. "Is not the dear old fellow just in his element," whispered Ted to Cathy, as they stood behind the others. Queenie caught the whisper and smiled to herself. "He looks just what he is, a ruler among men; one who ought to be a leader, who expects obedience as a right," she thought, as she watched the tall athletic figure moving through the sheds crowded with workmen. "The old grey coat and felt hat just suited him," she thought. Though he carried his head so high he had a pleasant word or look for the men. "My fellows are such splendid workmen," he said once, with a little conscious pride in his manner. The words, "My men," "my boys," were perpetually on his lips. Here, on his own domain, among his subjects, he felt and moved as a sort of king. "Rival monarchs, my dear," observed Cathy mischievously--"King Karl and the King of Warstdale."