He slid down the balusters, looking up with eyes of approval: and Lettice came after. A cup of tea was welcome, albeit not too warm. And as she sat under Theodosia's critical gaze, the thought came again—"I'm not wanted here. But—'He cares for me.'" "What are you dreaming about?" asked Theodosia abruptly, noting a transient smile. Lettice could not answer the question, and she made no attempt to evade it. "Have you been unpacking all this time?" "She hasn't unpacked one single thing," cried Keith. "She's been laying down, sound asleep." "Lying down, you mean; not laying." "And she's going to play games with me, Mamsie. Lots of games, and run races. And I'm going to love her, ever so much, 'cause I think she's pretty." Theodosia's face darkened. The last thing she desired was that Keith should care for Lettice. Her own love for the child was of a jealous and exacting nature. "Your friends at the Farm seem to have been in great hurry to get rid of you," she remarked coldly. "O no, indeed!" Lettice could not let this pass in justice to the Valentines. "They would have kept me any length of time. Only Felix thought—and thought—it would not be right." "I'm sure I wish—" Theodosia's sentence could not have been clearer, if fully uttered. "Why not 'right,' pray?" "They are—no relations," faltered Lettice. "Are we?—" in an undertone. "I thought—Dr. Bryant—" "He was related to your sister. Not to you yourself, of course." "Sissie—my sister—had told me—" Lettice could not finish the sentence: and Theodosia moved impatiently. "Do stop crying, pray." Then, in a tone of surprise—"Maurice! To-day! You said you would not come before to-morrow." "Have you any objection, my dear?" Theodosia made no answer. Dr. Bryant kissed her, patted Keith on the head, then passed on to the chair from which Lettice had risen. She said nothing, only lifted two brown eyes, wide-open and filled to the brim with tears. The upward look was singularly sweet and pathetic; and the inscrutable calm of the doctor's face changed slightly under it. He took her two little chill hands into his, and bent to kiss her brow,—a welcome so unexpected, that one or two big tears splashed on his wrist, despite all her efforts. She was glad that he stood between her and Theodosia, from whom a slight sound, half laugh, half sneer, could be heard. "Miss Anderson is a young lady of sixteen, I believe, Maurice." "Lettice Anderson is my little girl, and I am her old uncle, or father, if she will have me, Theodosia." To Lettice, he added softly—"For poor Cecilia's sake! Her mother was very dear to me." Lettice clung fast to the kind brown hand. How could she hold back? The doctor put her into an easy-chair, and sat down by her, watching the working of the pale face. "Not grown-up yet, surely?" "O no, I'm only a little girl still." "You and I are going to be friends, I see." Theodosia's brows drew together. She did not wish Dr. Bryant to like Lettice.