e to get us adopted this time," she quavered.

"Eh?" said Captain Carew. He spoke dully, yet the faintest glimmerings
of light were beginning to break on him. Her attitude, something
familiar in her voice, her height and shining curly head brought that
evening to his mind, when she had owned to an intention of wishing to
frighten him. A slow anger stirred him, anger against this child, her
parents, and himself.

"Your name!" he said harshly.

And at the sound of his own voice his anger grew. His lip thrust itself
out when he had spoken, and his whole face wore its hardest, most
unlovely look.

"Your name, girl?"

And Betty hesitated no longer. Her only point of pride at this age lay
in assuming bravery whether she had it or not. "We Bruces are afraid of
no one," being her favourite speech, and as inspiriting to her as the
sound of the war-drum to a warrior bold.

She stood straight and her brown eyes looked straight into his brown
eyes.

"Elizabeth Bruce," she said.

The old man's anger blazed fiercely.

"Look here my girl," he said, "you can tell your father it's a bit late
in the day for these games. Tell him I've got the only grandchild here
that ever I want. Now--go."

But Betty stood her ground.

"My father didn't send me," she said, and her face went from red to
white. "He didn't know I was coming at all--and--sure's death! he never
knew anything about the ghosts. I came to get Cyril adopted because he's
getting tired of cutting wood an' only getting a penny a week."

The old man broke into a hoarse laugh.

"And this time to get yourself adopted," he said.

But Betty shook her head vigorously.

"No, I only wanted to see what sort of woman to be," she said. She
walked to the open window.

"I'm not going to adopt you," said the old man, "so go--GO! Never let me
see you inside my gates again--by day or by night. Go!"

And once more Betty took a swift departure by way of the balcony door.
And again she left a bonnet behind her.

CHAPTER XIII

"IF I WERE ONLY YOU!"

The third Saturday and Sunday before the ending of term, Dorothea spent
with her "intimate" friend, Alma Montague.

Alma's home was a very beautiful one at Elizabeth Bay, and, as Dot told
her mother, there were parlour-maid, housemaid, kitchen-maid and every
other sort of maid there.

Dot slept in one of the visitor's rooms, and had a bathroom and a
sitting-room opening off her bedroom for her exclusive use. The
sittin