“Oh, dear no,” he said cheerfully, “they have been brought up by her sister, poor thing, a very good sort of woman. I am sure their mother herself could not have done better for them than Jane.” “But,” said Miss Ferrars, “you are yourself so different, as you were saying, from what you were when you came to India first?” “Different,” he said with a laugh. “I should think so, indeed--oh, very different! things I never should have dreamt of aspiring to then, seem quite natural to me now. You may say different. When I look at you--” She did not wish him to look at her, at least from this point of view, and it was very difficult to secure his attention to any other subject; which, perhaps, was natural enough. The only thing she could do without too much pertinacity was to ask, which was an innocent question, how long it was since he had come to India first. “A long time,” he said, “a long time. I was only a little over thirty. It was in the year----, seventeen years ago. I am near fifty now.” “Then your son?” she said, with a little hesitation. “The little fellow? Well, and what of him?” “He must be nearly twenty now.” He looked at her with an astonished stare for a moment. “Twenty!” he said, as if the idea was beyond his comprehension. Then he repeated with a puzzled countenance, “Twenty! you don’t say so! Now that you put it in that light, I suppose he is.” “And your daughter--” “My little girl--” he rubbed his head in a bewildered way. “You are very particular in your questions. Are you afraid of them? You may be sure I will never let them be a subject of annoyance to you.” “Indeed, you mistake me altogether,” said Evelyn. “It will be anything but annoyance. It will be one of the pleasures of my life.” She was very sincere by nature, and she did pause a moment before she said pleasures. She was not so sure of that. They had suddenly become her duty, her future occupation, but as to pleasures she was far from certain. Children brought up without any knowledge of their father, in the sphere which he had left so long ago, and which he was so conscious was different, very different from all he was familiar with now. It was curious to hear him enlarge upon the difference, and yet take so little thought of it in this most important particular. Her seriousness moved him at last. “I see,” he said regretfully, “that you think I have been very indifferent to them, very negligent. But what could a man do? I could not have them here, to leave them in the charge of servants. I could not drag them about with me from one province to another. What could I have done? And I knew they were happy at home.” “You must not think I am blaming you. I see all the difficulty, but now--now you will have them with you, will you not, and take them back into your life?” He looked at her with eyes full of admiration and content. “Is that the first thing you want me to do,” he said, “the first thing you have at heart?”