-

"Dinner bein' announced, the 'ostess will dismiss
all care, or at least appear to do so: and, 'avin'
marshalled 'er guests in order of precedence (see
page 67 supra) will take the arm of the gentleman
favoured to conduct 'er. Some light and playful
remark will 'ere be not out of place, such as--"

"Well, I'm d--d, if you'll excuse me," ejaculated Miss Sally.

Late that night, in his smoking-room at Meriton, Sir Miles Chandon
knocked out the ashes of his pipe against the bars of the grate, rose,
stretched himself, and looked about him. Matters had left a bedroom
candle ready to hand on a side-table, as his custom was. But Sir Miles
took up the lamp instead.

Lamp in hand, he went up the great staircase, and along the unlit fifty
yards of corridor to the room where his son lay. In all the great house
he could hear no sound, scarcely even the tread of his own foot on the
thick carpeting.

He opened the door almost noiselessly and stood by the bed, holding the
lamp high.

But noiselessly though Sir Miles had come, the boy was awake. Nor was
it in his nature, being awake, to feign sleep. He looked up, blinking a
little, but with no fear in his gentle eyes.

His father had not counted on this. He felt an absurd bashfulness tying
his tongue. At length he struggled to say--

"'Thought I'd make sure you were comfortable. That's all."

"Oh, yes--thank you. Comfortable and--and--only just thinking a bit."

"We'll have a long talk to-morrow. That girl--she's a good sort, eh?"

"Tilda? . . . Why, of course, she did it _all_. She's the best in the
world!"

EPILOGUE

The time is seven years later--seven years and a half, rather; the
season, spring; the hour, eight in the morning; and the place, a corner
of Culvercoombe, where Miss Sally's terraced garden slopes to meet the
wild woodland through an old orchard billowy overhead with pink and
white blossom and sheeted underfoot with blue-bells. At the foot of the
orchard, and on the very edge of the woodland, lies a small enclosure,
where from the head of the slope you catch sight, between the apple
trees, of a number of white stones glimmering; but your eyes rest rather
on the figure of a girl who has just left the enclosure, and is mounting
the slope with a spade on her shoulder.

You watch her, yourself invisible, while she approaches. You might gaze
until she has passed, and yet not recognise her for Tilda. She wears a