l, going on to
the study. "Don't let those young torments stay there long enough to
tire her, Mrs. Jessop, if you please. She is still very weak."

But, when he went up-stairs half an hour later, he found that Mrs.
Jessop had not yet succeeded in getting the "young torments" out of
Miss Boucheafen's room. Miss Boucheafen was sitting in a great chair by
the fire, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders, and with the
children grouped about her--Floss on her knee, Maggie perched on the
arm of her chair, and Tom kneeling at her feet, all three listening
intently to what she was telling them. What it was the Doctor did not
hear, for the group broke up at his entrance; Tom sprang to his feet,
Maggie jumped down, and Miss Boucheafen let Floss slip from her knees
to the floor.

"Oh, uncle, I wish you hadn't come!" cried Tom.

"It was such a yuvly 'tory!" lamented Maggie, whose five-year-old
vocabulary was but limited; while Floss, whose name was short for
Ferdinand, and who had perhaps not yet fully recovered from the shock
of his tumble down the kitchen stairs, contented himself with surveying
his relative with an implacable expression as he sucked his thumb.

"I will finish the story to-morrow, perhaps," said Miss Boucheafen,
quietly; "go to bed now. See--Mrs. Jessop is waiting for you."

They went without a murmur--indeed, they hardly looked sulky, but
walked off in the wake of Mrs. Jessop, very unlike Laura's children,
the Doctor thought. He was amazed, and stood for a few moments, after
the door had closed behind them, quite silent, and looking at Alexia
Boucheafen.

A month had passed since the night of the attempted murder in Rockmore
Street, and, although during that time she had lived under his roof,
George Brudenell knew no more of this girl than her name. One thing,
however, he did know, and was growing to know better day by day--that
she was beautiful, with a beauty that was to him unique, startling; he
had seen none like it before. She had risen as the children left the
room, and stood with her hand resting upon the mantel-shelf, her eyes
gazing downward at the fire, her head above the level of his. He looked
at her, thinking how beautiful she was, and thinking--not for the first
time either--that he was not sure whether that very beauty did not
repel rather than charm him. For it seemed to have at once the glitter
of ice and the hardness of stone; her large, dark, bright eyes seemed
to pierce him, but th