ply
that we can avail ourselves of what is termed a season in town, but for
a poor and struggling man it is essential that he should leave no stone
unturned to introduce himself to those persons who can and will help
him. The influential sort of people who can materially assist me in my
career are now in London, Hilda. You, my darling, are an excuse for many
valuable introductions. You see, therefore, that not alone from an
affectionate point of view you ought now to be with me. But," continued
Jasper, looking straight ahead of him, and fixing his fine, intelligent
eyes on the distant landscape, "I waive all that. I understand that you
do not wish to leave Judy until she is fit to be moved to the seaside.
If she maintains the progress she is now making, Dr. Harvey will
probably allow Aunt Marjorie to take her away at the end of the week. I
shall have you home on Saturday at the latest, Hilda."

"Yes," said Hilda. "I hope so, but--but, Jasper, you still fail to
understand me. When Judy goes away, she is not going to the seaside--she
is coming with me to London--to Philippa Terrace. It is a promise, and
I--I won't--I can't go back from it. I stand or fall by my promise,
Jasper--I wish to say so now once for all."

"You stand or fall by your promise!" repeated Quentyns. "What an
extraordinary remark. One would suppose, my darling, that I was an ogre
or the worst sort of tyrant. I always told you that Judy should come to
stay with us for a few weeks when we had a room to receive her in. If
matters progress as satisfactorily as I hope, we shall have a snug,
prettily furnished, little spare room by the end of the present season.
I promise you, Hilda, that Judy shall be its first tenant."

Hilda laid her hand with a sort of trembling, nervous impatience, on her
husband's arm.

"I have made a mistake--I have been a coward," she said. "Even now,
Jasper, you don't a bit understand me. Long ago, when mother died, she
left Judy in my charge. I ought never to have married and left her. Judy
is not an ordinary child, and she suffered. When I went away her heart
was starved. She could not live with a starved heart. In my absence, my
little Judy nearly died. She is better now--she is recovering because I
am with her. I am never going to leave her again while she lives."

"Hilda, what nonsense you talk," said Quentyns, with temper in his tone.
"If Judy lives to grow up, she will marry like other girls--and will
leave you of her own