g, only sighed and set her lips
tight against each other, and seemed to listen. Presently we could
hear the gravel crunched under a horse's hoofs outside, then the sound
of wheels, and in another moment Dr. Sharpe came in.

"How is this?" said he without any salutation. "Somebody to lunch, eh?
---- luncheons! Where were you, Miss Chicken?"

"I am so sorry!" she faltered painfully. "But I was playing down on
the beach, and I did not know. You told me to play about out of doors,
doctor--you know you did," she added deprecatingly.

"Of course I told you to play about out of doors. You need it bad
enough, God knows! Now run away, both of you."

"Is there any danger?" she whispered.

"Not a bit," said Dr. Sharpe, adding, under his breath, "A good thing
for her if there were.--Run away, I say," he said, hustling us both
out of the door, "and send Mills and Frederick here."

We were shut away from the dim luxurious library with its blazing
fire, and the old man asleep before it, but we did not feel free to
move, and stood awed and speechless outside, listening and waiting.
Helen, who had been so brave, gave way now: her face was piteously
convulsed and the tears streamed down her cheeks. I made clumsy
attempts to soothe her, and finally took her in my arms and carried
her into the great lighted drawing-room and laid her on the sofa. She
uttered nothing of her impotent childish despair, but I could read
well enough her humiliation and her shame. Mills came in presently and
whispered to me that dinner was ready. She heard him and sprang up
with the air of a baby princess. "I will come to dinner in five
minutes, Mills," said she imperiously: then, when she met the honest
sympathy of his glance, she ran up to him and thrust her little slim
hand into his. "I trust you, Mills," she murmured, her lips quivering
again, "but you must never let papa know and never let the servants
suspect." And presently, with the outward indifference of a woman
of the world, the child took her place at table and entertained me
through dinner with an account of what we should do for Georgy Lenox.

CHAPTER V.

For Georgy was coming next day, and in spite of my unhappiness on
Helen's account I woke up the following morning with my pulses all
astir with joy. It would be something for me to have her here, away
from her mother, who always frowned upon me--away from Jack, whose
claim upon her time and attention made mine appear presumptuous and