to England on Tuesday," Theodora said, as they sauntered
along down the green glade. "It is so strange, you know, but I have
never been there."

"Never been to England!" Hector exclaimed, incredulously.

"No!" and she smiled up at him. All was at peace now in her mind, and
she dared to look as much as she pleased.

"No. Papa used to go sometimes, but it was too expensive to take the
whole family; so we were left at Bruges generally, or at Dieppe, or
where we chanced to be. If it was the summer, often we have spent it in
a Normandy farm-house."

"Then how have you learned all the things you know?" he asked.

"That was not difficult. I do not know much," she said, gently, "and
Sarah taught me in the beginning, and then I went to convents whenever
we were in towns, and dear papa was so kind and generous always; no
matter how hard up he was he always got the best masters available for
me--and for Clementine. Sarah is much older, and even Clementine five
years."

"I wonder what on earth you will think of it--England, I mean?" He was
deeply interested.

"I am sure I shall love it. We have always spoken of it as home, you
know. And papa has often described my grandfather's houses. Both my
grandfathers had beautiful houses, it seems, and he says, now that I am
rich and cannot ever be a trouble to them, the family might be pleased
to see me."

She spoke quite simply. There never was room for bitterness or irony in
her tender heart. And Hector looked down upon her, a sort of worship in
his eyes.

"Papa's father is dead long ago; it is his brother who owns Beechleigh
now," she continued--"Sir Patrick Fitzgerald. They are Irish, of course,
but the place is in Cambridgeshire, because it came from his
grandmother."

"Yes, I know the old boy," said Hector. "I see him at the turf--a fiery,
vile-tempered, thin, old bird, about sixty."

"That sounds like him," said Theodora.

"And so you are going to make all these relations' acquaintance. What an
experience it will be, won't it?" His voice was full of sympathy. "But
you will stay in London. They are all there now, I suppose?"

"My Grandfather Borringdon, my mother's father, never goes there, I
believe; he is very old and delicate, we have heard. But I have written
to him--papa wished me to do so; for myself I do not care, because I
think he was unkind to my mother, and I shall not like him. It was cruel
never to speak to her again--wasn't it?--just because she married