Miss Vicky, as the little spinster was usually called, cast romantic glances at the dark head and the fair one so close to one another. As a rule she would have been shocked at such a sight, but she knew how keenly Sophy grieved for the death of her father, and was only too willing that the girl should be comforted. And Miss Vicky occasionally touched the brooch, which contained the portrait of a red-coated officer. She also had lived in Arcady, but her Lieutenant had been shot in the Indian Mutiny, and Miss Vicky had left Arcady after a short sojourn, for a longer one in the work-a-day world. At once, she had lost her lover and her small income, and, like many another lonely woman, had had to turn to and work. But the memory of that short romance kept her heart young, hence her sympathy with this young couple. "Poor dear father!" sighed Sophy, looking at the sea below, dotted with white sails. "I can hardly believe he is gone. Only two weeks ago and he was so well, and now--oh! I was so fond of him! We were so happy together! He was cold to everyone else, but kindly to me! How could he have died so suddenly, Alan?" "Well, of course, dear, a fit is always sudden. But try and bear up, Sophy dear. Don't give way like this. Be comforted." She looked up wistfully to the blue sky. "At all events, he is at peace now," she said, her lip quivering. "I know he was often very unhappy, poor father! He used to sit for hours frowning and perplexed, as if there was something terrible on his mind." Alan's face was turned away now, and his brow was wrinkled. He seemed absorbed in thought, as though striving to elucidate some problem suggested by her words. Wrapped up in her own sorrow, the girl did not notice his momentary preoccupation, but continued: "He never said good-bye to me. Dr. Warrender said he was insensible for so long before death that it was useless my seeing him. He kept me out of the room, so I only saw him--afterwards. I'll never forgive the doctor for it. It was cruel!" She sobbed hysterically. "Sophy," said Alan suddenly, "had your father any enemies?" She looked round at him in astonishment. "I don't know. I don't think so. Why should he? He was the kindest man in the world." "I am sure he was," replied the young man warmly; "but even the kindest may have enemies." "He might have made enemies in Africa," she said gravely. "It was there he made his money, and I suppose there are people mean enough to hate a man who is successful, especially if his success results in a fortune of some two millions. Father used to say he despised most people. That was why he lived so quietly at the Moat House." "It was particularly quiet till you came, Sophy." "I'm sure it was," she replied, with the glimmer of a smile. "Still, although _he_ had not me, you had your profession." "Ah! my poor profession! I always regret having given it up." "Why did you?"