“You are a child,” he remarked contemptuously; “you do not understand. If you go away, you can learn to paint pictures yourself like those at Tredowen. You will find that the world is full of other beautiful places!” The sympathetic aspect of his words was altogether destroyed by the thin note of careless irony, which even the child understood. She felt that he was mocking her. “I could never be happy,” she said simply, “away from Tredowen. You understand, don’t you?” she added, turning confidentially to Aynesworth. “You think so now, dear,” he said, “but remember that you are very young. There are many things for you to learn before you grow up.” “I am not a dunce,” she replied. “I can talk French and German, and do arithmetic, and play the organ. Father used to teach me these things. I can learn at Tredowen very well. I hope that my friends will let me stay here.” Wingrave took no more notice of her. She and Aynesworth walked together to the station. As they passed the little whitewashed cottage, she suddenly let go his hand, and darted inside. “Wait one moment,” she cried breathlessly. She reappeared almost at once, holding something tightly clenched in her right hand. She showed it to him shyly. “It is for you, please,” she said. It was a silver locket, and inside was a little picture of herself. Aynesworth stooped down and kissed her. He had had as many presents in his life as most men, but never an offering which came to him quite like that! They stood still for a moment, and he held out her hands. Already the morning was astir. The seagulls were wheeling, white-winged and noiseless, above their heads; the air was fragrant with the scent of cottage flowers. Like a low, sweet undernote, the sea came rolling in upon the firm sands--out to the west it stretched like a sheet of softly swaying inland water. For those few moments there seemed no note of discord--and then the harsh whistle of an approaching train! They took hold of hands and ran. It was, perhaps, as well that their farewells were cut short. There was scarcely time for more than a few hurried words before the train moved out from the queer little station, and with his head out of the window, Aynesworth waved his hand to the black-frocked child with her pale, eager face already stained with tears--a lone, strange little figure, full of a sort of plaintive grace as she stood there, against a background of milk cans, waving a crumpled handkerchief! Wingrave, who had been buried in a morning paper, looked up presently. “If our journeyings,” he remarked drily, “are to contain everywhere incidents such as these, they will become a sort of sentimental pilgrimage.” Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said, “that my interest in the child has annoyed you. At any rate, it is over now. The parson was mysterious, but he assured me that she was provided for.” Wingrave looked across the carriage with cold, reflective curiosity.