During this interview, Cara had been waiting for her mother in the lounge--she was now full of these touching little attentions. As she waited one of her English acquaintances happened to enter, paused, and bowed with ironical ceremony. Then he approached, and said in a jocular key: “Hullo, Goldylocks! what are you doing here? Why so proud?” Goldylocks raised her eyes, stared at him fiercely, and resumed her study of a picture paper; and after a momentary hesitation, Captain Seymour felt compelled to pass on. Cara had done with these odious free-and-easy men, who joked with her, flattered her, and then talked her over, and laughed at her behind her back. That thought acted as a lash, and kept Miss Blagdon’s exuberant impulses in check. Presently her mother reappeared, and as they climbed the hill together, arm in arm, she said: “Cousin Maude is so much better, the doctor thinks she may move in ten days, and we will travel with her. You know the school idea has been abandoned, and you can easily keep up your music, and French with me. I do hope you won’t find Thornby too dull; there is no one in the village now, except the Dentons.” “And your aunt--the hunting lady?” “No; she lives in Brighton, I am thankful to say, but the poor old Holt is closed. Cara,” and her mother halted on the little plateau, “Mrs. Hesketh has been frightening me. She asks, if your father claimed you, what would you do?” “Why _you_ know, Mummy,” throwing her arm round her waist, “I’ll never, never leave you!” and she covered her face with kisses. “If you had been a boy, darling, of course I’d never, never have dared to carry you off; but I wanted you so badly, and he did not; you were left alone with your nurse in a corner of that great big house, your father ignored you; he dislikes girls--even grown-up girls.” “Yet he married a girl, Mummy. Why you were only my age--seventeen!” “Yes, dear, but your father soon got tired of me. At seventeen, I was years younger than you are; I was painfully timid, silly, and undecided--and----” “You are undecided still; but there is no one in all the whole world, as clever and good, as my own beautiful Mum,” and Cara bent her fair head, and kissed her mother on the lips. * * * * * Hugo Blagdon was now a stout, irascible, red-faced man of fifty-seven, who for the sake of his health was every year compelled to take ‘a cure’ at Carlsbad, and here Cara’s letters followed, and found him. As he casually opened number one, then glanced at the signature, his complexion changed from red to purple. “What the devil does this mean?” he muttered.