e was very comfortable at Charlock House; yes, no
place could suit her more perfectly; yes, Mrs. Bray was very kind.

And he talked a little about business with her, explaining that
Bertram's death had left him with a great deal of management on his
hands; he must have her signature to papers, and all this was done with
the easiest tact so that naturalness and simplicity should grow between
them; so that, in finding pen and papers in her desk, in asking where
she was to sign, in obeying the pointing of his finger here and there,
she should recover something of her quiet, and be able to smile, even, a
little answering smile, when he said that he should make a business
woman of her. And--"Rather a shame that I should take your money like
this, Amabel, but, with all Bertram's money, you are quite a bloated
capitalist. I'm rather hard up, and you don't grudge it, I know."

She flushed all over at the idea, even said in jest:--"All that I have
is yours."

"Ah, well, not all," said Sir Hugh. "You must remember--other claims."
And he, too, flushed a little now in saying, gently, tentatively;--"May
I see the little boy?"

"I will bring him," said Amabel.

How she remembered, all her life long, that meeting of her husband and
her son. It was the late afternoon of a bright June day and the warm
smell of flowers floated in at the open windows of the drawing-room. She
did not let the nurse bring Augustine, she carried him down herself. He
was a large, robust baby with thick, corn-coloured hair and a solemn,
beautiful little face. Amabel came in with him and stood before her
husband holding him and looking down. Confusion was in her mind, a
mingling of pride and shame.

Sir Hugh and the baby eyed each other, with some intentness. And, as the
silence grew a little long, Sir Hugh touched the child's cheek with his
finger and said: "Nice little fellow: splendid little fellow. How old is
he, Amabel? Isn't he very big?"

"A year and two months. Yes, he is very big."

"He looks like you, doesn't he?"

"Does he?" she said faintly.

"Just your colour," Sir Hugh assured her. "As grave as a little king,
isn't he. How firmly he looks at me."

"He is grave, but he never cries; he is very cheerful, too, and well and
strong."

"He looks it. He does you credit. Well, my little man, shall we be
friends?" Sir Hugh held out his hand. Augustine continued to gaze at
him, unmoving. "He won't shake hands," said Sir Hugh.

Amabel took the