laying with her ball, the child ran on to the southern limit of the
Gardens, at that part of it which still remains nearest to the old
Palace of Kensington. Observing close at hand one of those spacious
covered seats, called in England "alcoves," Mr. Rayburn was reminded
that he had the morning's newspaper in his pocket, and that he might do
well to rest and read. At that early hour the place was a solitude.

"Go on playing, my dear," he said; "but take care to keep where I can
see you."

Lucy tossed up her ball; and Lucy's father opened his newspaper. He
had not been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a familiar
little hand laid on his knee.

"Tired of playing?" he inquired--with his eyes still on the newspaper.

"I'm frightened, papa."

He looked up directly. The child's pale face startled him. He took her
on his knee and kissed her.

"You oughtn't to be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you," he said,
gently. "What is it?" He looked out of the alcove as he spoke, and saw a
little dog among the trees. "Is it the dog?" he asked.

Lucy answered:

"It's not the dog--it's the lady."

The lady was not visible from the alcove.

"Has she said anything to you?" Mr. Rayburn inquired.

"No."

"What has she done to frighten you?"

The child put her arms round her father's neck.

"Whisper, papa," she said; "I'm afraid of her hearing us. I think she's
mad."

"Why do you think so, Lucy?"

"She came near to me. I thought she was going to say something. She
seemed to be ill."

"Well? And what then?"

"She looked at me."

There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express what she had to say
next--and took refuge in silence.

"Nothing very wonderful, so far," her father suggested.

"Yes, papa--but she didn't seem to see me when she looked."

"Well, and what happened then?"

"The lady was frightened--and that frightened me. I think," the child
repeated positively, "she's mad."

It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the lady might be blind. He rose at once
to set the doubt at rest.

"Wait here," he said, "and I'll come back to you."

But Lucy clung to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid
to be by herself. They left the alcove together.

The new point of view at once revealed the stranger, leaning against the
trunk of a tree. She was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The
pallor of her face, the glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted
for the child's terror--it excu