fying
acuteness: was it possible that she ought to have sunk her own
disillusions, misery, and contempt of Philip d'Avranche, for the child's
sake? She shuddered even now as the reflection of that possibility came
to her--to live with Philip d'Avranche!

Of late she had felt that a crisis was near. She had had premonitions
that her fate, good or bad, was closing in upon her; that these days in
this lonely spot with her child, with her love for it and its love for
her, were numbered; that dreams must soon give way for action, and this
devoted peace would be broken, she knew not how.

Stooping, she kissed the little fellow upon the forehead and the eyes,
and his two hands came up and clasped both her cheeks.

"Tu m'aimes, maman?" the child asked. She had taught him the pretty
question.

"Comme la vie, comme la vie!" she answered with a half sob, and caught
up the little one to her bosom. Now she looked towards the window.
Ranulph followed her look, and saw that the shades of night were
falling.

"I have far to walk," he said; "I must be going." As he held out his
hand to Guida the child leaned over and touched him on the shoulder.
"What is your name, man?" he asked.

He smiled, and, taking the warm little hand in his own, he said: "My
name is Ranulph, little gentleman. Ranulph's my name, but you shall call
me Ro."

"Good-night, Ro, man," the child answered with a mischievous smile.

The scene brought up another such scene in Guida's life so many years
ago. Instinctively she drew back with the child, a look of pain crossing
her face. But Ranulph did not see; he was going. At the doorway he
turned and said:

"You know you can trust me. Good-bye."

CHAPTER XXXI

When Ranulph returned to his little house at St. Aubin's Bay night had
fallen. Approaching he saw there was no light in the windows. The
blinds were not drawn, and no glimmer of fire came from the chimney.
He hesitated at the door, for he instinctively felt that something must
have happened to his father. He was just about to enter, however, when
some one came hurriedly round the corner of the house.

"Whist, boy," said a voice; "I've news for you." Ranulph recognised the
voice as that of Dormy Jamais. Dormy plucked at his sleeve. "Come with
me, boy," said he.

"Come inside if you want to tell me something," answered Ranulph.

"Ah bah, not for me! Stone walls have ears. I'll tell only you and the
wind that hears and runs away."

"I must spe