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.

"Your point of view," he remarked, "is a mystery to me! I cannot see how
the