you to see him,' she said, laying her
little hand on Mrs. Fairfax's knee.

'I will write my answer, Betty; I cannot do that,' was the cold reply,
as Mrs. Fairfax turned her head away from the child.

But Betty was not to be put off.

'I think he would like to see you very much; and you'd like him, for he
is Uncle Harry's friend; and he has such sad eyes, and he has been
through tribulation like you; at least, he has had a big trouble, he
told me; and that's just the same, isn't it?'

There was no answer. Betty continued: 'Shall I just go out and bring
him in? I've been telling him about you this afternoon, and how you
gave me the lilies, and Prince, and he liked to hear it; he asked me a
lot of questions, and I think he wants to see you, and if you're like a
queen, like I told him!'

Then Mrs. Fairfax lifted the child on her knee. 'Oh Betty, Betty!' was
all she said, but some glistening drops fell on the child's curly head,
as the grey head was bent over it, and Betty wondered why Mrs.
Fairfax's voice sounded so strange. 'I think you will have to bring
him in here,' Mrs. Fairfax said at last; and Betty trotted out of the
room in great delight. She found the major pacing up and down the road
with a white, resolute face. He threw away the cigar he was smoking
when he saw the child, and asked, with anxiety in his dark eyes,--

'Well, little woman, how have you fared?'

'You're to come in and see her.'

'Thank God!' and not another word did the major say till he was in the
drawing-room.

It was a constrained and formal greeting between the two; and then Mrs.
Fairfax turned to Betty,--

'Will you run into the garden, dear, till we call you? I think Grace
is out there.'

Betty obeyed. Grace was walking slowly up and down the path, enveloped
in shawls, and did not look well-pleased when the childish voice
sounded in her ear,--

'May I come and walk with you?'

'Were you sent out here? Nesta, I suppose, as usual is out, so she
will not be able to look after you, and I certainly am not in a fit
state of health to amuse you and keep you out of mischief.'

'I'm not going to get into mischief, really,' protested Betty in an
aggrieved tone; 'I'll walk quietly along with you, and won't even pick
a flower. Are you better today?'

'No, I am not better--I don't expect I ever shall be, though I can get
no sympathy from any one in this house.'

'What's the matter with you?' asked Betty.

'Now, if you are