who had just saved her father from a
horrible death, and whose presence of mind and self-forgetfulness were
to be repaid by the paltry sum of thirty pounds a year! "Papa!" she
exclaimed, and then in her forbearance kept quiet.

"Ah, Nea, are you there still?" observed her father in some surprise;
"I do not want to keep you a prisoner, my child. Wilson can sit by me
while I sleep, for I must not be disturbed after I have taken the
composing draught Dr. Ainslie ordered. Go out for a drive and amuse
yourself; and, wait a moment, Nea, perhaps you had better say a civil
word or two to young Trafford, and see if Mrs. Thorpe has attended to
him. He shall hear from me officially tomorrow; yes," muttered Mr.
Huntingdon, as his daughter left the room, "a hundred a year is an
ample allowance for a junior, more than that would be ill-advised and
lead to presumption."

Maurice Trafford was in the library trying to forget the pain of his
injured arm, which was beginning to revenge itself for that moment's
terrible strain.

The afternoon's shadows lay on the garden of the square, the children
were playing under the acacia trees, the house-martins still circled
and wavered in the sunlight.

Through the open window came the soft spring breezes and the distant
hum of young voices; within was warmth, silence, and the perfume of
violets.

Maurice closed his drowsy eyes with a delicious sense of luxurious
forgetfulness, and then opened them with a start; for some one had
gently called him by his name, and for a moment he thought it was
still his dream, for standing at the foot of the couch was a girl as
beautiful as any vision, who held out her hand to him, and said in the
sweetest voice he had ever heard:

"Mr. Trafford, you have saved my father's life. I shall be grateful to
you all my life."

Maurice was almost dizzy as he stood up and looked at the girl's
earnest face and eyes brimming over with tears, and the sunlight and
the violets and the children's voices seemed all confused; and as he
took her offered hand a strange shyness kept him silent.

"I have heard all about it," she went on. "I know, while others stood
by too terrified to move, you risked your own life to protect my
father--that you stood between him and death while they dragged him
out from the horses' feet. It was noble--heroic;" and here Nea clasped
her hands, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

Poor impetuous child; these were hardly the cold words of civil