"Nothing is further from my intentions. I merely brought my little girl over to provide her a home; that is why I have troubled _you_. Will you do me this kindness, Lady Thetford?" "Take your little girl? Oh, most gladly--most willingly!" "Thanks! Her mother's people are French, and I know little about them; and, save yourself, I can claim friendship with few in England. She will be poor; I have settled on her all I am worth--some three hundred a year; and you, Lady Thetford, you can teach her, when she grows up, to catch a rich husband." She took no notice of the taunt; she looked only too happy to render him this service. "I am so pleased! She will be such a nice companion for Rupert. How old is she?" "Nearly four." "Is she here?" "No; she is in London. I will fetch her down in a day or two." "What do you call her?" "Mabel--after her mother. Then it is settled, Lady Thetford, I am to fetch her?" "I shall be delighted! But won't you dine with me?" "No. I must catch the evening train. Farewell, Lady Thetford, and many thanks! In three days I will be here again." He lifted his hat and walked away. Lady Thetford watched him out of sight, and then turned slowly, as she heard her little boy calling her with shrill impatience. The red sunset had faded out; the sea lay gray and cold under the twilight sky, and the evening breeze was chill. Changes in sky and sea and land told of coming night; and Lady Thetford, shivering slightly in the rising wind, hurried away to be driven home. CHAPTER III. "LITTLE MAY." On the evening of the third day after this interview, a fly from the railway drove up the long, winding avenue leading to the great front entrance of the Thetford mansion. A bronzed military gentleman, a nurse and a little girl, occupied the fly, and the gentleman's keen, dark eyes wandered searchingly around. Swelling meadows, velvety lawns, sloping terraces, waving trees, bright flower-gardens, quaint old fish-ponds, sparkling fountains, and a wooded park, with sprightly deer--that was what he saw, all bathed in the golden halo of the summer sunset. Massive and grand, the old house reared its gray head, half overgrown with ivy and climbing roses. Gaudy peacocks strutted on the terraces; a graceful gazelle flitted out for an instant amongst the trees to look at them and then fled in afright; and the barking of half a dozen mastiffs greeted their approach noisily. "A fine old place," thought Captain Everard. "My pretty Ada might have done worse. A grand old place for that puny child to inherit. The staunch old warrior-blood of the Thetfords is sadly adulterated in his pale veins, I fancy. Well, my little May, and how are you going to like all this?" The child, a bright-faced little creature, with great sparkling eyes and rose-bloom cheeks, was looking in delight at a distant terrace. "See, papa! See all the pretty peacocks! Look, Ellen," to the nurse, "three, four, five! Oh, how pretty!"