hem up in her
hand. She fancied, as she noted the droop of their stalks, that she
could see the impress still upon them of a hot, childish grasp, and as
she mused, she distinctly heard a childish chuckle of laughter not far
away.

'Is your house haunted?' she asked Miss Egerton at dinner.

'Indeed it is not. Why do you ask?'

'There is no child in the house is there?'

'Yes,' replied Miss Egerton, 'there is Vera's child.'

The visitor could not suppress her astonishment, and Mrs. Egerton,
noting it, said with extra severity: 'I like children to be kept in
their proper place. He has a good nurse, who looks after him entirely.
And I am thankful to say that the nurseries are at the top of the
house, so we are not being continually reminded of his presence.'

'He must be a very quiet child.'

There was no response. When Miss Egerton was alone with her friend she
gave her a little more information.

'When Vera went abroad with her husband her child was only a few months
old, and very delicate, so she was advised to leave him behind. She
sent him here at once, without first asking mother's permission to do
so, and mother did not like it. We do not care for children; but he is
no trouble. Mother visits the nurseries every morning and sees to his
comfort and health. When poor Vera died she determined to keep him for
good and all. His father never writes to us, or shows the slightest
interest in his child. We don't know in which quarter of the globe he
is. Of course a child in a house is rather a nuisance, but in another
year or two mother means to send him to a boarding-school.

'A child in the house.'

The words rang through the visitor's heart and brain. She began to
listen for the faint tokens of the little one's presence. She
meditated a raid upon the nursery, and a sally forth from it with the
child into the old garden below, where she and he would enjoy laughter
and play together. But a telegram called her suddenly away, and the
quiet of the house and garden remained undisturbed.

The footsteps still pattered at intervals; the hushed little voice and
gurgles of innocent laughter still echoed from distant corners. For
the child in the house was not a ghost, and his life is the one of
which I am about to tell you.

Chapter I.

'MASTER MORTIMER.'

He was known by the name of 'the Child' by his relations, but his nurse
called him Master Bobby. He would say if he were asked himself:

'