Ever since that day, now more than a year ago, when the reunited members of the Force family met at Baden-Baden, and paired off—Mr. and Mrs. Force on one sofa, Odalite and Le on another, and Wynnette and Elva on the window seat, leaving the earl, as it were, “out in the cold,” and quite forgotten, and little Rosemary, also temporarily forgotten, had drawn a hassock to the side of his easy chair and sat down and laid her little curly black head on his knee, in silent sympathy—ever since that day the earl and the child had been fast friends. In her tender little heart she pitied him for his weakness and illness, just as she might have pitied any poor man in any rank of life, and she had fallen into a habit of silent sympathy with him, and of drawing her hassock to the side of his chair, when they were all indoors, and of taking his hand when they were out walking. Even now, when the invalid had recovered health, strength and spirits, these habits of the child, once formed, were not easily to be broken. She no longer pitied him, because she saw that he was no longer an object of pity; but she drew her hassock to his side indoors, and took his hand and walked with him outside. She seemed to think that he belonged to her, or she to him, or they to each other. One day they were sauntering slowly through the grounds of the Conversation-Haus. Wynnette and Elva were flitting on before them. Rosemary’s hand was—not on the earl’s arm—but in his hand. He was so very much taller than the girl that he led her like a child. There had been a pause in their talk, when the earl gently closed his fingers over hers, and said: “My little one, I love you very much.” “Oh, I hope you do, and it is so kind of you!” warmly answered the child, returning the pressure of his hand and acting toward him as she would have acted toward her uncle. “Then, you do care for me a little?” he said. “Oh, yes, indeed, I care for you a great deal. I am very fond of you,” said Rosemary, warmly, squeezing his fingers. “How old are you, Rosemary?” he gravely inquired. “I shall soon be seventeen.” “Indeed!” he exclaimed, turning and looking down on her. “Yes, indeed!” she answered, positively. “Well, you are such a quaint, little old lady, that I am not surprised, after all. You might have been fifteen, or you might have been twenty. But seventeen! That is a sweet age—the age at which the Princess Royal of England was married!” “Indeed!” exclaimed Rosemary, in her turn. “Yes, indeed!” he replied, with a smile. And then there was silence between the two for a few minutes. The earl was meditating. The child was uneasy, and wondering why she was so. “Little friend,” he said, at last, “you and I seem very good friends.” “Oh, we are! And it is so very good of you to be friends with me!” she answered, warmly, squeezing his fingers in her small hand. “And we are really fond of each other.” “Oh, very, very fond of one another, and it is so kind of you!”