It was barely three o'clock when he reached the house in Kensington. The servant who opened the door murmured something in a low voice, about the ladies not receiving visitors in consequence of a family affliction. Being further interrogated, he believed that Mrs. Dormer-Smith's cousin, Lord Castlecombe's son, was dead. "Tell Miss Cheffington that I am here," said Owen. "Give her this card, and say I am waiting to see her." His manner was so peremptory that, after a brief hesitation, the man took the card, and ushered Owen into the dining-room to wait. The room was dimmer than the dim wintry day without need have made it, by reason of the red blinds being partly drawn down, and filling it with a lurid gloom. The servant had not been gone many seconds before the door opened, and a rather pale face, not raised very high above the level of the floor, peeped into the room. The eyes belonging to the face soon made out Owen's figure in the dimness, and a childish voice said, in a subdued and stealthy tone, "Hulloa!" "Hulloa!" returned Owen, in a tone not quite so subdued, but still low; for there was a general hush in the house which would have made ordinary speech seem startling. "Do you want May?" asked the child. "Yes; I do." "I heard you tell James to give her your card. Who are you?" "I'm Owen. Who are you?" replied Owen, listening all the while for the expected footfall. "I'm Harold." Upon this, a second rather pale face, still nearer to the ground, peeped in at the door; and a second childish voice piped out faintly, "And I'm Wilfred." Then the two children marched solemnly into the room, shutting the door behind them, and stared at Owen with judicial gravity. "May's my cousin," said Harold, after contemplating the stranger for a while in silence. "And May's my cousin, too," observed Wilfred. "I'm fond of her," pursued Harold. "So am I," exclaimed Owen, walking across the room impatiently. "But why doesn't she come? Where is she? Do you know?" "Yes," replied Harold, with deliberation; "I know." "What can that man be about? He can't have given her the message!" said Owen, speaking half to himself, his nervous impatience rising with every minute of delay. Harold looked profoundly astute, as he answered, with a series of emphatic nods, "No; he didn't. He took the card to Smithson; and I know what Smithson will do; she'll read it first herself, and then she'll take it to mamma, and then perhaps mamma will tell May--if you're a--what is it?--a proper person. _Are_ you a proper person?" "I say," said Owen suddenly, "will you go and fetch May? Tell her Owen is here waiting. Do go, there's a good boy!" "Is May fond of you?" inquired Harold hesitating. "May will be pleased with you if you go and fetch her. Run! Be off at once now--quick!"