Aynesworth looked at him in surprise. Did he really wish to quarrel? “I imagine, sir,” he said, “that my time is my own when I have no work of yours on hand. If you think otherwise--” He paused and looked at his employer significantly. Wingrave turned on his heel. “Be so kind,” he said, “as to settle the bill here tonight. We leave by the seven o’clock train in the morning.” “Tomorrow!” Aynesworth exclaimed. “Precisely!” “Do you mind,” he asked, “if I follow by a later train?” “I do,” Wingrave answered. “I need you in London directly we arrive.” “I am afraid,” Aynesworth said, after a moment’s reflection, “that it is impossible for me to leave.” “Why?” “You will think it a small thing,” he said, “but I have given my promise. I must see that child again before I go!” “You are referring,” he asked, “to the black-frocked little creature we saw about the place yesterday?” “Yes!” Wingrave regarded his secretary as one might look at a person who has suddenly taken leave of his senses. “I am sorry,” he said, “to interfere with your engagements, but it is necessary that we should both leave by the seven o’clock train tomorrow morning.” Aynesworth reflected for a moment. “If I can see the child first,” he said, “I will come. If not, I will follow you at midday.” “In the latter case,” Wingrave remarked, “pray do not trouble to follow me unless your own affairs take you to London. Our connection will have ended.” “You mean this?” Aynesworth asked. “It is my custom,” Wingrave answered, “to mean what I say.” Aynesworth set his alarm that night for half-past five. It seemed to him that his future would largely depend upon how soundly the child slept. THE HEART OF A CHILD The cottage, as Aynesworth neared it, showed no sign of life. The curtainless windows were blank and empty, no smoke ascended from the chimney. Its plastered front was innocent of any form of creeper, but in the few feet of garden in front a great, overgrown wild rose bush, starred with deep red blossoms, perfumed the air. As he drew near, the door suddenly opened, and with a little cry of welcome the child rushed out to him. “How lovely of you!” she cried. “I saw you coming from my window!” “You are up early,” he said, smiling down at her. “The sun woke me,” she answered. “It always does. I was going down to the sands. Shall we go together? Or would you like to go into the gardens at Tredowen? The flowers are beautiful there while the dew is on them!” “I am afraid,” Aynesworth answered, “that I cannot do either. I have come to say goodbye.” The light died out of her face all of a sudden. The delicate beauty of her gleaming eyes and quivering mouth had vanished. She was once more the pale, wan little child he had seen coming slowly up the garden path at Tredowen. “You are going--so soon!” she murmured. He took her hand and led her away over the short green turf of the common.