"Then, if you do not marry, you allow the tradition of heritage to lapse?" suggested Mr. Bayliss.

"It has lapsed already," he replied—"I am not a real descendant of the Jocelyns—"

"By the mother's side you are," said Mr. Bayliss—"and your mother being dead, it is open to you to take the name of Jocelyn by law, and continue the lineage. It would be entirely fair and reasonable."

Robin made no answer. Mr. Bayliss settled his glasses more firmly on his nose, and went on with his documents.

"Mr. Jocelyn speaks in his Last Will and Testament of the 'great love' he entertained for his adopted child, known as 'Innocent'— and he gives to her all that is contained in the small oak chest in the best parlour—this is the best parlour, I presume?"— looking round—"Can you point out the oak chest mentioned?"

Innocent rose, and moved to a corner, where she lifted out of a recess a small quaintly made oaken casket, brass-bound, with a heavy lock.

Mr. Bayliss looked at it with a certain amount of curiosity.

"The key?" he suggested—"I believe the late Mr. Jocelyn always wore it on his watch-chain."

Robin got up and went to the mantelpiece.

"Here is my uncle's watch and chain," he said, in a hushed voice— "The watch has stopped. I do not intend that it shall ever go again—I shall keep it put by with the precious treasures of the house."

Mr. Bayliss made no remark on this utterance, which to him was one of mere sentiment—and taking the watch and chain in his hand, detached therefrom a small key. With this he opened the oak casket—and looked carefully inside. Taking out a sealed packet, he handed it to Innocent.

"This is for you," he said—"and this also"—here he lifted from the bottom of the casket a flat jewel-case of antique leather embossed in gold.

"This," he continued, "Mr. Jocelyn explained to me, is a necklet of pearls—traditionally believed to have been given by the founder of the house, Amadis de Jocelin, to his wife on their wedding-day. It has been worn by every bride of the house since. I hope—yes—I very much hope—it will be worn by the young lady who now inherits it."

And he passed the jewel-case over the table to Innocent, who sat silent, with the sealed packet she had just received lying before her. She took it passively, and opened it—a beautiful row of pearls, not very large, but wonderfully perfect, lay within— clasped by a small, curiously designed diamond snap. She looked at them with half-wondering, half-indifferent eyes—then closed the case and gave it to Robin Clifford.

"They are for your wife when you marry," she said—"Please keep them."

Mr. Bayliss coughed—a cough of remonstrance.

"Pardon me, my dear young lady, but Mr. Jocelyn was particularly anxious the pearls should be yours—"

She looked at him, gravely.

"Yes—I am sure he was," she said—"He was always good—too good and generous—but if they are mine, I give them to Mr. Clifford. There is nothing more to be said about them."

Mr. Bayliss coughed again.

"Well—that is all that is contained in this casket, with the exception of a paper unsealed—shall I read it?"

She bent her head.

"The paper is written in Mr. Jocelyn's own hand, and is as follows," continued the lawyer: "I desire that my adopted child, known as 'Innocent,' shall receive into her own possession the Jocelyn pearls, valued by experts at L2,500, and that she shall wear the same on her marriage-morning. The sealed packet, placed in this casket with the pearls afore-said, contains a letter for her own personal and private perusal, and other matter which concerns herself alone."

Mr. Bayliss here looked up, and addressed her.

"From these words it is evident that the sealed packet you have there is an affair of confidence."

She laid her hand upon it.

"I quite understand!"

He adjusted his glasses, and turned over his documents once more.

"Then I think there is nothing more we need trouble you with—oh yes!—one thing—Miss—er—Miss Priday—?"

Priscilla, who during the whole conversation had sat bolt upright on a chair in the corner of the room, neither moving nor speaking, here rose and curtsied.

The lawyer looked at her attentively.

"Priday-Miss Priscilla Priday?"

"Yes, sir—that's me," said Priscilla, briefly.

"Mr. Jocelyn thought very highly of you, Miss Friday," he said— "he mentions you in the following paragraph of his will—'I give and bequeath to my faithful housekeeper and good friend, Priscilla Priday, the sum of Two Hundred Pounds for her own personal use, and I desire that she shall remain at Briar Farm for the rest of her life. And that, if she shall find it necessary to resign her duties in the farm house, she shall possess that cottage on my estate known as Rose Cottage, free of all charges, and be allowed to live there and be suitably and comfortably maintained till the end of her days. And,—er—pray don't distress yourself, Miss Priday!"

For Priscilla was crying, and making no effort to hide her emotion.

"Bless 'is old 'art!" she sobbed—"He thort of everybody, 'e did! An' what shall I ever want o' Rose Cottage, as is the sweetest o' little places, when I've got the kitchen o' Briar Farm!—an' there I'll 'ope to do my work plain an' true till I drops!—so there!— an' I'm much obliged to ye, Mr. Bayliss, an' mebbe ye'll tell me where to put the two 'underd pounds so as I don't lose it, for I never 'ad so much money in my life, an' if any one gets to 'ear of it I'll 'ave all the 'alt an' lame an' blind round me in a jiffy. An' as for keepin' money, I never could—an' p'raps it 'ud be best for Mr. Robin to look arter it—-" Here she stopped, out of breath with talk and tears.

"It will be all right," said Mr. Bayliss, soothingly, "quite all right, I assure you! Mr. Clifford will no doubt see to any little business matter for you with great pleasure—"

"Dear Priscilla!"—and Innocent went to her side and put an arm round her neck—"Don't cry!—you will be so happy, living always in this dear old place!—and Robin will be so glad to have you with him."

Priscilla took the little hand that caressed her, and kissed it.

"Ah, my lovey!" she half whispered—"I should be 'appy enough if I thought you was a-goin' to be 'appy too!—but you're flyin' in the face o' fortune, lovey!—that's what you're a-doin'!"

Innocent silenced her with a gesture, and stood beside her, patiently listening till Mr. Bayliss had concluded his business.

"I think, Mr. Clifford," he then said, at last—"there is no occasion to trouble you further. Everything is in perfect order— you are the inheritor of Briar Farm and all its contents, with all its adjoining lands—and the only condition attached to your inheritance is that you keep it maintained on the same working methods by which it has always been maintained. You will find no difficulty in doing this—and you have plenty of money to do it on. There are a few minor details respecting farm stock, etc., which we can go over together at any time. You are sole executor, of course—and—and—er—yes!—I think that is all."

"May I go now?" asked Innocent, lifting her serious blue-grey eyes to his face—"Do you want me any more?"

Mr. Bayliss surveyed her curiously.

"No—I—er—I think not," he replied—"Of course the pearls should be in your possession—"

"I have given them away," she said, quickly—"to Robin."

"But I have not accepted them," he answered—"I will keep them if you like—for YOU."

She gave a slight, scarcely perceptible movement of vexation, and then, taking up the sealed packet which was addressed to her personally, she left the room.

The lawyer looked after her in a little perplexity.

"I'm afraid she takes her loss rather badly," he said—"or— perhaps—is she a little absent-minded?"

Robin Clifford smiled, sadly.

"I think not," he answered. "Of course she feels the death of my uncle deeply—she adored him—and then-I-suppose you know—my uncle may have told you—"

"That he hoped and expected you to marry her?" said Mr. Bayliss, nodding his head, sagaciously—"Yes—I am aware that such was his dearest wish. In fact he led me to believe that the matter was as good as settled."

"She will not have me," said Clifford, gently—"and I cannot compel her to marry me against her will—indeed I would not if I could."

The lawyer was so surprised that he was obliged to take off his glasses and polish them.

"She will not have you!" he exclaimed. "Dear me! That is indeed most unexpected and distressing! There is—there is nothing against you, surely?—you are quite a personable young man—"

Robin shrugged his shoulders, disdainfully.

"Whatever I am does not matter to her," he said—"Let us talk no more about it."

Priscilla looked from one to the other.

"Eh well!" she said—"If any one knows 'er at all 'tis I as 'ave 'ad 'er with me night an' day when she was a baby—and 'as watched 'er grow into the little beauty she is,—an' 'er 'ed's just fair full o' strange fancies that she's got out o' the books she found in the old knight's chest years ago—we must give 'er time to think a bit an' settle. 'Tis an awful blow to 'er to lose 'er Dad, as she allus called Farmer Jocelyn—she's like a little bird fallen out o' the nest with no strength to use 'er wings an' not knowin' where to go. Let 'er settle a bit!—that's what I sez—an' you'll see I'm right. You leave 'er alone, Mister Robin, an' all'll come right, never fear! She's got the queerest notions about love—she picked 'em out o' they old books—an' she'll 'ave to find out they's more lies than truth. Love's a poor 'oldin' for most folks—it don't last long enough."

Mr. Bayliss permitted himself to smile, as he took his hat, and prepared to go.

"I'm sure you're quite right, Miss Priday!" he said—"you speak— er—most sensibly! I'm sure I hope, for the young lady's sake, that she will 'settle down'—if she does not—"

"Ay, if she does not!" echoed Clifford.

"Well! if she does not, life may be difficult for her"—and the lawyer shook his head forebodingly—"A girl alone in the world— with no relatives!—ah, dear, dear me! A sad look-out!—a very sad look-out! But we must trust to her good sense that she will be wise in time!"



CHAPTER X

Upstairs, shut in her own little room with the door locked, Innocent opened the sealed packet. She found within it a letter and some bank-notes. With a sensitive pain which thrilled every nerve in her body she unfolded the letter, written in Hugo Jocelyn's firm clear writing—a writing she knew so well, and which bore no trace of weakness or failing in the hand that guided the pen. How strange it was, she thought, that the written words should look so living and distinct when the writer was dead! Her head swam.—her eyes were dim—for a moment she could scarcely see—then the mist before her slowly dispersed and she read the first words, which made her heart swell and the tears rise in her aching throat.

"MY LITTLE WILDING!—When you read this I shall be gone to that wonderful world which all the clergymen tell us about, but which none of them are in any great hurry to see for themselves. I hope —and I sometimes believe—such a world exists—and that perhaps it is a place where a man may sow seed and raise crops as well and as prosperously as on Briar Farm—however, I'm praying I may not be taken till I've seen you safely wed to Robin—and yet, something tells me this will not be; and that's the something that makes me write this letter and put it with the pearls that are, by my will, destined for you on your marriage-morning. I'm writing it, remember, on the same night I've told you all about yourself—the night of the day the doctor gave me my death-warrant. I may live a year,—I may live but a week,—it will be hard if I may not live to see you married!—but God's will must be done. The bank-notes folded in this letter make up four hundred pounds—and this money you can spend as you like—on your clothes for the bridal, or on anything you fancy—I place no restriction on you as to its use. When a maid weds there are many pretties she needs to buy, and the prettier they are for you the better shall I be pleased. Whether I live or whether I die, you need say nothing of this money to Robin, or to anyone. It is your own absolutely—to do as you like with. I am thankful to feel that you will be safe in Robin's loving care—for the world is hard on a woman left alone as you would be, were it not for him. I give you my word that if I had any clue, however small, to your real parentage, I would write down here for you all I know—but I know nothing more than I have told you. I have loved you as my own child and you have been the joy of my old days. May God bless you and give you joy and peace in Briar Farm!—you and your children, and your children's children! Amen!

"Your 'Dad'

"HUGO JOCELYN."

She read this to the end, and then some tension in her brain seemed to relax, and she wept long and bitterly, her head bent down on the letter and her bright hair falling over it. Presently, checking her sobs, she rose, and looked about her in a kind of dream—the familiar little room seemed to have suddenly become strange to her, and she thought she saw standing in one corner a figure clad in armour,—its vizor was up, showing a sad pale face and melancholy eyes—the lips moved—and a sighing murmur floated past her ears—"Mon coeur me soutien!" A cold terror seized her, and she trembled from head to foot—then the vision or hallucination vanished as swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared. Rallying her forces, she gradually mastered the overpowering fear which for a moment had possessed her,—and folding up Hugo Jocelyn's last letter, she kissed it, and placed it in her bosom. The bank-notes were four in number—each for one hundred pounds;—these she put in an envelope, and shut them in the drawer containing her secret manuscript.

"Now the way is clear!" she said—"I can do what I like—I have my wings, and I can fly away! Oh Dad, dear Dad!—you would be so unhappy if you knew what I mean to do!—it would break your heart, Dad!—but you have no heart to break now, poor Dad!—it is cold as stone!—it will never beat any more! Mine is the heart that beats!—the heart that burns, and aches, and hurts me!—ah!—how it hurts! And no one can understand—no one will ever care to understand!"

She locked her manuscript-drawer—then went and bathed her eyes, which smarted with the tears she had shed. Looking at herself in the mirror she saw a pale plaintive little creature, without any freshness of beauty—all the vitality seemed gone out of her. Smoothing her ruffled hair, she twisted it up in a loose coil at the back of her head, and studied with melancholy dislike and pain the heavy effect of her dense black draperies against her delicate skin.

"I shall do for anything now," she said—"No one will look at me, and I shall pass quite unnoticed in a crowd. I'm glad I'm not a pretty girl—it might be more difficult to get on. And Robin called me 'lovely' the other day!—poor, foolish Robin!"

She went downstairs then to see if she could help Priscilla—but Priscilla would not allow her to do anything in the way of what she called "chores."

"No, lovey," she said—"you just keep quiet, an' by-an'-bye you an' me'll 'ave a quiet tea together, for Mister Robin he's gone off for the rest o' the day an' night with Mr. Bayliss, as there's lots o' things to see to, an' 'e left you this little note"—here Priscilla produced a small neatly folded paper from her apron pocke-t-"an' sez 'e—'Give this to Miss Innocent'' 'e sez, 'an' she won't mind my bein' out o' the way—it'll be better for 'er to be quiet a bit with you'—an' so it will, lovey, for sometimes a man about the 'ouse is a worrit an' a burden, say what we will, an' good though 'e be."

Innocent took the note and read—

"I have made up my mind to go with Bayliss into the town and stay at his house for the night—there are many business matters we have to go into together, and it is important for me to thoroughly understand the position of my uncle's affairs. If I cannot manage to get back to-morrow, I will let you know. Robin."

She heaved a sigh of intense relief. For twenty-four hours at least she was free from love's importunity—she could be alone to think, and to plan. She turned to Priscilla with a gentle look and smile.

"I'll go into the garden," she said—"and when it's tea-time you'll come and fetch me, won't you? I shall be near the old stone knight, Sieur Amadis—"

"Oh, bother 'im," muttered Priscilla, irrelevantly—"You do think too much o' that there blessed old figure!—why, what's 'e got to do with you, my pretty?"

"Nothing!" and the colour came to her pale cheeks for a moment, and then fled back again—"He never had anything to do with me, really! But I seem to know him."

Priscilla gave a kind of melancholy snort—and the girl moved slowly away through the open door and beyond it, out among the radiant flowers. Her little figure in deep black was soon lost to sight, and after watching her for a minute, Priscilla turned to her home-work with tears blinding her eyes so thickly that she could scarcely see.

"If she winnot take Mister Robin, the Lord knows what'll become of 'er!" sighed the worthy woman—"For she's as lone i' the world as a thrush fallen out o' the nest before it's grown strong enough to fly! Eh, we thort we did a good deed, Mister Jocelyn an' I, when we kep' 'er as a baby, 'opin' agin 'ope as 'er parents 'ud turn up an' be sorry for the loss of 'er—but never a sign of a soul!—an' now she's grow'd up she's thorts in 'er 'ed which ain't easy to unnerstand—for since Mister Jocelyn told 'er the tale of 'erself she's not been the same like—she's got suddin old!"

The afternoon was very peaceful and beautiful—the sun shone warmly over the smooth meadows of Briar Farm, and reddened the apples in the orchard yet a little more tenderly, flashing in flecks of gold on the "Glory" roses, and touching the wings of fluttering doves with arrowy silver gleams. No one looking at the fine old house, with its picturesque gables and latticed windows, would have thought that its last master of lawful lineage was dead and buried, and that the funeral had taken place that morning. Briar Farm, though more than three centuries old, seemed full of youthful life and promise—a vital fact, destined to outlast many more human lives than those which in the passing of three hundred years had already left their mark upon it, and it was strange and incredible to realise that the long chain of lineally descended male ancestors had broken at last, and that no remaining link survived to carry on the old tradition. Sadly and slowly Innocent walked across the stretches of warm clover-scented grass to the ancient tomb of the "Sieur Amadis"—and sat down beside it, not far from the place where so lately she had sat with Robin—what a change had come over her life since then! She watched the sun sinking towards the horizon in a mellow mist of orange-coloured radiance,—the day was drawing to an end—the fateful, wretched day which had seen the best friend she had ever known, and whom for years she had adored and revered as her own "father," laid in the dust to perish among perishable things.

"I wish I had died instead of him," she said, half aloud—"or else that I had never been born! Oh, dear 'Sieur Amadis'!—you know how hard it is to live in the world unless some one wants you—unless some one loves you!—and no one wants me—no one loves me—except Robin!"

Solitary, and full of the heaviest sadness, she tried to think and to form plans—but her mind was tired, and she could come to no decisive resolution beyond the one all-convincing necessity—that of leaving Briar Farm. Of course she must go,—there was no other alternative. And now, thanks to Hugo Jocelyn's forethought in giving her money for her bridal "pretties," no financial difficulty stood in the way of her departure. She must go—but where? To begin with, she had no name. She would have to invent one for herself—

"Yes!" she murmured—"I must invent a name—and make it famous!" Involuntarily she clenched her small hand as though she held some prize within its soft grasp. "Why not? Other people have done the same—I can but try! If I fail—!"

Her delicate fingers relaxed,—in her imagination she saw some coveted splendour slip from her hold, and her little face grew set and serious as though she had already suffered a whole life's disillusion.

"I can but try," she repeated—"something urges me on—something tells me I may succeed. And then—!"

Her eyes brightened slowly—a faint rose flushed her cheeks,—and with the sudden change of expression, she became almost beautiful. Herein lay her particular charm,—the rarest of all in women,—the passing of the lights and shadows of thought over features which responded swiftly and emotionally to the prompting and play of the mind.

"I should have to go," she went on—"even if Dad were still alive. I could not—I cannot marry Robin!—I do not want to marry anybody. It is the common lot of women—why they should envy or desire it, I cannot think! To give one's self up entirely to a man's humours—to be glad of his caresses, and miserable when he is angry or tired—to bear his children and see them grow up and leave you for their own 'betterment' as they would call it—oh!— what an old, old drudging life!—a life of monotony, sickness, pain, and fatigue!—and nothing higher done than what animals can do! There are plenty of women in the world who like to stay on this level, I suppose—but I should not like it,—I could not live in this beautiful, wonderful world with no higher ambition than a sheep or a cow!"

At that moment she suddenly saw Priscilla running from the house across the meadow, and beckoning to her in evident haste and excitement. She got up at once and ran to meet her, flying across the grass with light airy feet as swiftly as Atalanta.

"What is it?" she cried, seeing Priscilla's face, crimson with hurry and nervousness—"Is there some new trouble?"

Priscilla was breathless, and could scarcely speak.

"There's a lady"—she presently gasped—"a lady to see you—from London—in the best parlour—she asked for Farmer Jocelyn's adopted daughter named Innocent. And she gave me her card—here it is"—and Priscilla wiped her face and gasped again as Innocent took the card and read "Lady Maude Blythe,"—then gazed at Priscilla, wonderingly.

"Who can she be?—some one who knew Dad—?"

"Bless you, child, he never knew lord nor lady!" replied Priscilla, recovering her breath somewhat—"No—it's more likely one o' they grand folks what likes to buy old furniture, an' mebbe somebody's told 'er about Briar Farm things, an' 'ow they might p'raps be sold now the master's gone—"

"But that would be very silly and wicked talk," said Innocent. "Nothing will be sold—Robin would never allow it—"

"Well, come an' see the lady," and Priscilla hurried her along— "She said she wished to see you partikler. I told 'er the master was dead, an' onny buried this mornin', an' she smiled kind o' pleasant like, an' said she was sorry to have called on such an unfortunate day, but her business was important, an' if you could see 'er—"

"Is she young?"

"No, she's not young—but she isn't old," replied Priscilla— "She's wonderful good-looking an' dressed beautiful! I never see such clothes cut out o' blue serge! An' she's got a scent about her like our stillroom when we're makin' pot-purry bags for the linen."

By this time they had reached the house, and Innocent went straight into the best parlour. Her unexpected and unknown visitor stood there near the window, looking out on the beds of flowers, but turned round as she entered. For a moment they confronted each other in silence,—Innocent gazing in mute astonishment and enquiry at the tall, graceful, self-possessed woman, who, evidently of the world, worldly, gazed at her in turn with a curious, almost quizzical interest. Presently she spoke in a low, sweet, yet cold voice.

"So you are Innocent!" she said.

The girl's heart beat quickly,—something frightened her, though she knew not what.

"Yes," she answered, simply—"I am Innocent. You wished to see me—?"

"Yes—I wished to see you,"—and the lady quietly shut the window —"and I also wish to talk to you. In case anyone may be about listening, will you shut the door?"

With increasing nervousness and bewilderment, Innocent obeyed.

"You had my card, I think?" continued the lady, smiling ever so slightly—"I gave it to the servant—"

Innocent held it half crumpled in her hand.

"Yes," she said, trying to rally her self-possession—"Lady Maude Blythe—"

"Exactly!—you have quite a nice pronunciation! May I sit down?" and, without waiting for the required permission, Lady Blythe sank indolently into the old oaken arm-chair where Farmer Jocelyn had so long been accustomed to sit, and, taking out a cobweb of a handkerchief powerfully scented, passed it languorously across her lips and brow.

"You have had a very sad day of it, I fear!" she continued— "Deaths and funerals are such unpleasant affairs! But the farmer— Mr. Jocelyn—was not your father, was he?" The question was put with a repetition of the former slight, cold smile.

"No,"—and the girl looked at her wonderingly—"but he was better than my own father who deserted me!"

"Dear me! Your own father deserted you! How shocking of him!" and Lady Blythe turned a pair of brilliant dark eyes full on the pale little face confronting her—"And your mother?"

"She deserted me, too."

"What a reprehensible couple!" Here Lady Blythe extended a delicately gloved hand towards her. "Come here and let me look at you!"

But Innocent hesitated.

"Excuse me," she said, with a quaint and simple dignity—"I do not know you. I cannot understand why you have come to see me—if you would explain—"

While she thus spoke Lady Blythe had surveyed her scrutinisingly through a gold-mounted lorgnon.

"Quite a proud little person it is!" she remarked, and smiled— "Quite proud! I suppose I really must explain! Only I do hope you will not make a scene. Nothing is so unpleasant! And SUCH bad form! Please sit down!"

Innocent placed a chair close to the table so that she could lean her arm on that friendly board and steady her trembling little frame. When she was seated, Lady Blythe again looked at her critically through the lorgnon. Then she continued—

"Well, I must first tell you that I have always known your history—such a romance, isn't it! You were brought here as a baby by a man on horseback'—and he left you with the good old farmer who has taken care of you ever since. I am right? Yes!—I'm quite sure about it—because I knew the man—the curious sort of parental Lochinvar!—who got rid of you in such a curious way!"

Innocent drew a sharp breath.

"You knew him?"

Lady Blythe gave a delicate little cough.

"Yes—I knew him—rather well! I was quite a girl—and he was an artist—a rather famous one in his way—half French—and very good-looking. Yes, he certainly was remarkably good-looking! We ran away together—most absurd of us—but we did. Please don't look at me like that!—you remind me of Sara Bernhardt in 'La Tosca'!"

Innocent's eyes were indeed full of something like positive terror. Her heart beat violently—she felt a strange dread, and a foreboding that chilled her very blood.

"People often do that kind of thing—fall in love and run away," continued Lady Blythe, placidly—"when they are young and silly. It is quite a delightful sensation, of course, but it doesn't last. They don't know the world—and they never calculate results. However, we had quite a good time together. We went to Devon and Cornwall, and he painted pictures and made love to me—and it was all very nice and pretty. Then, of course, trouble came, and we had to get out of it as best we could—we were both tired of each other and quarrelled dreadfully, so we decided to give each other up. Only you were in the way!"

Innocent rose, steadying herself with one hand against the table.

"I!" she exclaimed, with a kind of sob in her throat.

"Yes—you! Dear me,—how you stare! Don't you understand? I suppose you've lived such a strange sort of hermit life down here that you know nothing. You were in the way—you, the baby!"

"Do you mean—?"

"Yes—I mean what you ought to have guessed at once—if you were not as stupid as an owl! I've told you I ran away with a man—I wouldn't marry him, though he asked me to—I should have been tied up for life, and I didn't want that—so we decided to separate. And he undertook to get rid of the baby—"

"Me!" cried Innocent, wildly—"oh, dear God! It was me!"

"Yes—it was you—but you needn't be tragic about it!" said Lady Blythe, calmly—"I think, on the whole, you were fortunately placed—and I was told where you were—"

"You were told?—oh, you were told!—and you never came! And you— you are—my MOTHER!"—and overpowered by the shock of emotion, the girl sank back on her chair, and burying her head in her hands, sobbed bitterly. Lady Blythe looked at her in meditative silence.

"What a tiresome creature!" she murmured, under her breath—"Quite undisciplined! No repose of manner—no style whatever! And apparently very little sense! I think it's a pity I came,—a mistaken sense of duty!"

Aloud she said—

"I hope you're not going to cry very long! Won't you get it over? I thought you would be glad to know me—and I've come out of pure kindness to you, simply because I heard your old farmer was dead. Why Pierce Armitage should have brought you to him I never could imagine—except that once he was painting a picture in the neighbourhood and was rather taken with the history of this place —Briar Farm isn't it called? You'll make your eyes quite sore if you go on crying like that! Yes—I am your mother—most unfortunately!—I hoped you would never know it!—but now—as you are left quite alone in the world, I have come to see what I can do for you."

Innocent checked her sobs, and lifting her head looked straight into the rather shallow bright eyes that regarded her with such cold and easy scrutiny.

"You can do nothing for me," she answered, in a low voice—"You never have done anything for me. If you are my mother, you are an unnatural one!" And moved by a sudden, swift emotion, she stood up with indignation and scorn lighting every feature of her face. "I was in your way at my birth—and you were glad to be rid of me. Why should you seek me now?"

Lady Blythe glanced her over amusedly.

"Really, you would do well on the stage!" she said—"If you were taller, you would make your fortune with that tragic manner! It is quite wasted on me, I assure you! I've told you a very simple commonplace truth—a thing that happens every day—a silly couple run away together, madly in love, and deluded by the idea that love will last—they get into trouble and have a child—naturally, as they are not married, the child is in the way, and they get rid of it—some people would have killed it, you know! Your father was quite a kind-hearted person—and his one idea was to place you where there were no other children, and where you would have a chance of being taken care of. So he brought you to Briar Farm— and he told me where he had left you before he went away and died."

"Died!" echoed the girl—"My father is dead?"

"So I believe,"—and Lady Blythe stifled a slight yawn—"He was always a rather reckless person—went out to paint pictures in all weathers, or to 'study effects' as he called it—how I hated his 'art' talk!—and I heard he died in Paris of influenza or pneumonia or something or other. But as I was married then, it didn't matter."

Innocent's deep-set, sad eyes studied her "mother" with strange wistfulness.

"Did you not love him?" she asked, pitifully.

Lady Blythe laughed, lightly.

"You odd girl! Of course I was quite crazy about him!—he was so handsome—and very fascinating in his way—but he could be a terrible bore, and he had a very bad temper. I was thankful when we separated. But I have made my own private enquiries about you, from time to time—I always had rather a curiosity about you, as I have had no other children. Won't you come and kiss me?"

Innocent stood rigid.

"I cannot!" she said.

Lady Blythe flushed and bit her lips.

"As you like!" she said, airily—"I don't mind!"

The girl clasped her hands tightly together.

"How can you ask me!" she said, in low, thrilling tones—"You who have let me grow up without any knowledge of you!—you who had no shame in leaving me here to live on the charity of a stranger!— you who never cared at all for the child you brought into the world!—can you imagine that I could care—now?"

"Well, really," smiled Lady Blythe—"I'm not sure that I have asked you to care! I have simply come here to tell you that you are not entirely alone in the world, and that I, knowing myself to be your mother—(although it happened so long ago I can hardly believe I was ever such a fool!)—am willing to do something for you—especially as I have no children by my second marriage. I will, in fact, 'adopt' you!" and she laughed—a pretty, musical laugh like a chime of little silver bells. "Lord Blythe will be delighted—he's a kind old person!"

Innocent looked at her gravely and steadily.

"Do you mean to say that you will own me?—name me?—acknowledge me as your daughter—"

"Why, certainly not!" and Lady Blythe's eyes flashed over her in cold disdain—"What are you thinking of? You are not legitimate— and you really have no lawful name—besides, I'm not bound to do anything at all for you now you are old enough to earn your own living. But I'm quite a good-natured woman,—and as I have said already I have no other children—and I'm willing to 'adopt' you, bring you out in society, give you pretty clothes, and marry you well if I can. But to own that I ever made such an idiot of myself as to have you at all is a little too much to ask!—Lord Blythe would never forgive me!"

"So you would make me live a life of deception with you!" said Innocent—"You would make me pretend to be what I am not—just as you pretend to be what you are not!—and yet you say I am your child! Oh God, save me from such a mother! Madam"—and she spoke in cold, deliberate accents—"you have lived all these years without children, save me whom you have ignored—and I, though nameless and illegitimate, now ignore you! I have no mother! I would not own you any more than you would own me;—my shame in saying that such a woman is my mother would be greater than yours in saying that I am your child! For the stigma of my birth is not my fault, but yours!—I am, as my father called me—'innocent'!"

Her breath came and went quickly—a crimson flush was on her cheeks—she looked transfigured—beautiful. Lady Blythe stared at her in wide-eyed disdain.

"You are exceedingly rude and stupid," she said—"You talk like a badly-trained actress! And you are quite blind to your own interests. Now please remember that if you refuse the offer I make you, I shall never trouble about you again—you will have to sink or swim—and you can do nothing for yourself—without even a name—"

"Have you never heard," interrupted Innocent, suddenly, "that it is quite possible to MAKE a name?"

Her "mother" was for the moment startled—she looked so intellectually strong and inspired.

"Have you never thought," she went on—"even you, in your strange life of hypocrisy—"

"Hypocrisy!" exclaimed Lady Blythe—"How dare you say such a thing!"

"Of course it is hypocrisy," said the girl, resolutely—"You are married to a man who knows nothing of your past life—is not that hypocrisy? You are a great lady, no doubt—you have everything you want in this world, except children—one child you had in me, and you let me be taken from you—yet you would pretend to 'adopt' me though you know I am your own! Is not that hypocrisy?"

Lady Blythe for a moment tightened her lips in a line of decided temper—then she smiled ironically.

"It is tact," she said—"and good manners. Society lives by certain conventions, and we must be careful not to outrage them. In your own interests you should be glad to learn how to live suitably without offence to others around you."

Innocent looked at her with straight and relentless scorn.

"I have done that," she answered—"so far. I shall continue to do it. I do not want any help from you! I would rather die than owe you anything! Please understand this! You say I am your daughter, and I suppose I must believe it—but the knowledge brings me sorrow and shame. And I must work my way out of this sorrow and shame,—somehow! I will do all I can to retrieve the damaged life you have given me. I never knew my mother was alive—and now—I wish to forget it! If my father lived, I would go to him—"

"Would you indeed!" and Lady Blythe rose, shaking her elegant skirts, and preening herself like a bird preparing for flight— "I'm afraid you would hardly receive a parental welcome! Fortunately for himself and for me, he is dead,—so you are quite untrammelled by any latent notions of filial duty. And you will never see me again after to-day!"

"No?"—and the interrogation was put with the slightest inflection of satire—so fine as to be scarcely perceptible—but Lady Blythe caught it, and flushed angrily.

"Of course not!" she said—"Do you think you, in your position of a mere farmer's girl, are likely to meet me in the greater world? You, without even a name—"

"Would you have given me a name?" interposed the girl, calmly.

"Of course! I should have invented one for you—

"I can do that for myself," said Innocent, quietly—"and so you are relieved from all trouble on my score. May I ask you to go now?"

Lady Blythe stared at her.

"Are you insolent, or only stupid?" she asked—"Do you realise what it is that I have told you—that I, Lady Blythe, wife of a peer, and moving in the highest ranks of society, am willing to take charge of you, feed you, clothe you, bring you out and marry you well? Do you understand, and still refuse?"

"I understand—and I still refuse," replied Innocent—"I would accept, if you owned me as your daughter to your husband and to all the world—but as your 'adopted' child—as a lie under your roof—I refuse absolutely and entirely! Are you astonished that I should wish to live truly instead of falsely?"

Lady Blythe gathered her priceless lace scarf round her elegant shoulders.

"I begin to think it must have been all a bad dream!" she said, and laughed softly—"My little affair with your father cannot have really happened, and you cannot really be my child! I must consider it in that light! I feel I have done my part in the matter by coming here to see you and talk to you and make what I consider a very kind and reasonable proposition—you have refused it—and there is no more to be said." She settled her dainty hat more piquantly on her rich dark hair, and smiled agreeably. "Will you show me the way out? I left my motor-car on the high-road—my chauffeur did not care to bring it down your rather muddy back lane."

Innocent said nothing—but merely opened the door and stood aside for her visitor to pass. A curious tightening at her heart oppressed her as she thought that this elegant, self-possessed, exquisitely attired creature was actually her "mother!"—and she could have cried out with the pain which was so hard to bear. Suddenly Lady Blythe came to an abrupt standstill.

"You will not kiss me?" she said—"Not even for your father's sake?"

With a quick sobbing catch in her breath, the girl looked up—her "mother" was a full head taller than she. She lifted her fair head—her eyes were full of tears. Her lips quivered—Lady Blythe stooped and kissed them lightly.

"There!—be a good girl!" she said. "You have the most extraordinary high-flown notions, and I think they will lead you into trouble! However, I'll give you one more chance—if at the end of this year you would like to come to me, my offer to you still holds good. After that—well!—as you yourself said, you will have no mother!"

"I have never had one!" answered Innocent, in low choked accents— "And—I shall never have one!"

Lady Blythe smiled—a cold, amused smile, and passed out through the hall into the garden.

"What delightful flowers!" she exclaimed, in a sweet, singing voice, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening—"A perfect paradise! No wonder Briar Farm is so famous! It's perfectly charming! Is this the way? Thanks ever so much!" This, as Innocent opened the gate—"Let me see!—I go up the old by- road?—yes?—and the main road joins it at the summit?—No, pray don't trouble to come with me—I can find my car quite easily! Good-bye!"

And picking up her dainty skirt with one ungloved hand, on which two diamond rings shone like circlets of dew, she nodded, smiled, and went her way—Innocent standing at the gate and watching her go with a kind of numbed patience as though she saw a figure in a dream vanishing slowly with the dawn of day. In truth she could hardly grasp the full significance of what had happened—she did not feel, even remotely, the slightest attraction towards this suddenly declared "mother" of hers—she could hardly believe the story. Yet she knew it must be true,—no woman of title and position would thus acknowledge a stigma on her own life without any cause for the confession. She stood at the gate still watching, though there was nothing now to watch, save the bending trees, and the flowering wild plants that fringed each side of the old by-road. Priscilla's voice calling her in a clear, yet lowered tone, startled her at last—she slowly shut the gate and turned in answer.

"Yes, dear? What is it?"

Priscilla trotted out from under the porch, full of eager curiosity.

"Has the lady gone?"

"Yes."

"What did she want with ye, dearie?"

"Nothing very much!" and Innocent smiled—a strange, wistful smile—"Only just what you thought!—she wished to buy something from Briar Farm—and I told her it was not to be sold!"



CHAPTER XI

That night Innocent made an end of all her hesitation. Resolutely she put away every thought that could deter her from the step she was now resolved to take. Poor old Priscilla little imagined the underlying cause of the lingering tenderness with which the girl kissed her "good-night," looking back with more than her usual sweetness as she went along the corridor to her own little room. Once there, she locked and bolted the door fast, and then set to work gathering a few little things together and putting them in a large but light-weight satchel, such as she had often used to carry some of the choicest apples from the orchard when they were being gathered in. Her first care was for her manuscript,—the long-treasured scribble, kept so secretly and so often considered with hope and fear, and wonder and doubting—then she took one or two of the more cherished volumes which had formerly been the property of the "Sieur Amadis" and packed them with it. Choosing only the most necessary garments from her little store, she soon filled her extemporary travelling-bag, and then sat down to write a letter to Robin. It was brief and explicit.

"DEAR ROBIN,"—it ran—"I have left this beloved home. It is impossible for me to stay. Dad left me some money in bank-notes in that sealed letter—so I want for nothing. Do not be anxious or unhappy—but marry soon and forget me. I know you will always be good to Priscilla—tell her I am not ungrateful to her for all her care of me. I love her dearly. But I am placed in the world unfortunately, and I must do something that will help me out of the shame of being a burden on others and an object of pity or contempt. If you will keep the old books Dad gave me, and still call them mine, you will be doing me a great kindness. And will you take care of Cupid?—he is quite a clever bird and knows his friends. He will come to you or Priscilla as easily as he comes to me. Good-bye, you dear, kind boy! I love you very much, but not as you want me to love you,—and I should only make you miserable if I stayed here and married you. God bless you! "INNOCENT."

She put this in an envelope and addressed it,—then making sure that everything was ready, she took a few sovereigns from the little pile of housekeeping money which Priscilla always brought to her to count over every week and compare with the household expenses.

"I can return these when I change one of Dad's bank-notes," she said to herself—"but I must have something smaller to pay my way with just now than a hundred pounds."

Indeed the notes Hugo Jocelyn had left for her might have given her some little trouble and embarrassment, but she did not pause to consider difficulties. When a human creature resolves to dare and to do, no impediment, real or imaginary, is allowed to stand long in the way. An impulse pushes the soul forward, be it ever so reluctantly—the impulse is sometimes from heaven and sometimes from hell—but as long as it is active and peremptory, it is obeyed blindly and to the full.

This little ignorant and unworldly girl passed the rest of the night in tidying the beloved room where she had spent so many happy hours, and setting everything in order,—talking in whispers between whiles to the ghostly presence of the "Sieur Amadis" as to a friend who knew her difficult plight and guessed her intentions.

"You see," she said, softly, "there is no way out of it. It is not as if I were anybody—I am nobody! I was never wanted in the world at all. I have no name. I have never been baptised. And though I know now that I have a mother, I feel that she is nothing to me. I can hardly believe she is my mother. She is a lady of fashion with a secret—and I am the secret! I ought to be put away and buried and forgotten!—that would be safest for her, and perhaps best for me! But I should like to live long enough to make her wish she had been true to my father and had owned me as his child! Ah, such dreams! Will they ever come true!"

She paused, looking up by the dim candle-light at the arms of the "Sieur Amadis"—who "Here seekinge Forgetfulnesse did here fynde Peace"—and at the motto "Mon coeur me soutien."

"Poor 'Sieur Amadis!'" she murmured—"He sought forgetfulness!— shall I ever do the same? How strange it will be not to WISH to remember!—surely one must be very old, or sad, to find gladness in forgetting!"

A faint little thrill of dread ran through her slight frame— thoughts began to oppress her and shake her courage—she resolutely put them away and bent herself to the practical side of action. Re-attiring herself in the plain black dress and hat which Priscilla had got for her mourning garb, she waited patiently for the first peep of daylight—a daylight which was little more than darkness—and then, taking her satchel, she crept softly out of her room, never once looking back. There was nothing to stay her progress, for the great mastiff Hero, since Hugo Jocelyn's death, had taken to such dismal howling that it had been found necessary to keep him away from the house in, a far-off shed where his melancholy plaints could not be heard. Treading with light, soundless footsteps down the stairs, she reached the front-door,— unbarred and unlocked it without any noise, and as softly closed it behind her,—then she stood in the open, shivering slightly in the sweet coldness of the coming dawn, and inhaling the fragrance of awakening unseen flowers. She knew of a gap in the hedge by means of which she could leave the garden without opening the big farm-gate which moved on rather creaking hinges—and she took this way over a couple of rough stepping-stones. Once out on the old by-road she paused. Briar Farm looked like a house in a dream— there was not enough daylight yet to show its gables distinctly, and it was more like the shadowy suggestion of a building than any actual substance. Yet there was something solemn and impressive in its scarcely defined outline—to the girl's sensitive imagination it was like the darkened and disappearing vision of her youth and happiness,—a curtain falling, as it were, between the past and the future like a drop-scene in a play.

"Good-bye, Briar Farm!" she whispered, kissing her hand to the quaintly peaked roof just dimly perceptible—"Good-bye, dear, beloved home! I shall never forget you! I shall never see anything like you! Good-bye, peace and safety!—good-bye!"

The tears rushed to her eyes, and for the moment blinded her,— then, overcoming this weakness, she set herself to walk quickly and steadily away. Up the old by-road, through the darkness of the overhanging trees, here and there crossed by pale wandering gleams of fitful light from the nearing dawn, she moved swiftly, treading with noiseless footsteps as though she thought the unseen spirits of wood and field might hear and interrupt her progress—and in a few minutes she found herself upon the broad highway branching right and left and leading in either direction to the wider world. Briar Farm had disappeared behind the trees,—it was as though no such place existed, so deeply was it hidden.

She stopped, considering. She was not sure which was the way to the nearest railway-station some eight miles distant. She was prepared to walk it, but feared to take the wrong road, for she instinctively felt that if she had to endure any unexpected delay, some one from Briar Farm would be sent to trace her and find out where she went. While she thus hesitated, she heard the heavy rumbling of slow cart-wheels, and waited to see what sort of vehicle might be approaching. It was a large waggon drawn by two ponderous horses and driven by a man who, dimly perceived by the light of the lantern fastened in front of him, appeared to be asleep. Innocent hailed him—and after one or two efforts succeeded at last in rousing his attention.

"Which is the way to the railway-station?" she asked.

The man blinked drowsily at her.

"Railway-station, is it? I be a-goin' there now to fetch a load o' nitrates. Are ye wantin' to git?"

"Wantin' to git" was a country phrase to which Innocent was well accustomed. She answered, gently—

"Yes. I should be so glad if you'd give me a lift—I'll pay you for it. I have to catch the first train to London."

"Lunnon? Quiet, ye rascals!"—this to the sturdy horses who were dragging away at their shafts in stolid determination to move on— "Lunnon's a good way off! Ever bin there?"

"No."

"Nor I, nayther. Seekin' service?"

"Yes."

"Wal, ye can ride along wi' me, if so be ye likes it—we be goin' main slow, but we'll be there before first engine. Climb up!— that's right! 'Ere's a corner beside me—ye could sit in the waggon if ye liked, but it's 'ard as nails. 'Ere's a bit of 'oss- cloth for a cushion."

The girl sprang up as he bade her and was soon seated.

"Ye're a light 'un an' a little 'un, an' a young 'un," he said, with a chuckle—"an' what ye're doin' all alone i' the wake o' the marnin' is more than yer own mother knows, I bet!"

"I have no mother," she said.

"Eh, eh! That's bad—that's bad! Yet for all that there's bad mothers wot's worse than none. Git on wi' ye!"—this in a stentorian voice to the horses, accompanied by a sounding crack of the whip. "Git on!"

The big strong creatures tugged at the shafts and obeyed, their hoofs making a noisy clatter in the silence of the dawn. The daylight was beginning to declare itself more openly, and away to the east, just above a line of dark trees, the sky showed pale suggestions of amber and of rose. Innocent sat very silent; she was almost afraid of the coming light lest by chance the man beside her should ever have seen her before and recognise her. His sleep having been broken, he was disposed to be garrulous.

"Ever bin by train afore?" he asked.

"No."

"No! Eh, that's mighty cur'ous. A'most everyone goes somewhere by train nowadays—there's such a sight o' cheap 'scursions. I know a man wot got up i' the middle o' night, 'e did, an' more fool 'e!— an' off 'e goes by train down to seaside for the day—'e'd never seen the sea before an' it giv' 'im such a scare as 'e ain't got over it yet. 'E said there was such a sight o' wobblin' water that 'e thort it 'ud wobble off altogether an' wash away all the land and 'im with it. Ay, ay! 'e was main scared with 'is cheap 'scursion!"

"I've never seen the sea," said Innocent then, in a low clear tone—"but I've read about it—and I think I know what it is like. It is always changing,—it is full of beautiful colours, blue and green, and grey and violet—and it has great waves edged with white foam!—oh yes!—the poets write about it, and I have often seen it in my dreams."

The dawning light in the sky deepened—and the waggoner turned his head to look more closely at his girl-companion.

"Ye talks mighty strange!" he said—"a'most as if ye'd been eddicated up to it. I ain't been eddicated, an' I've no notions above my betters, but ye may be right about the sea—if ye've read about it, though the papers is mostly lies, if ye asks me, telling ye one thing one day an' another to-morrow—"

"I don't read the papers"—and Innocent smiled a little as in the widening light she began to see the stolid, stupid, but good- natured face of the man—"I don't understand them. I've read about the sea in books,—books of poetry."

He uttered a sound between a whistle and a grunt.

"Books of poetry! An' ye're goin' to seek service in Lunnon? Take my word for't, my gel, they won't want any folks there wi' sort o' gammon like that in their 'eds—they're all on the make there, an' they don't care for nothin' 'cept money an' 'ow to grab it. I ain't bin there, but I've heerd a good deal."

"You may have heard wrong," said Innocent, gathering more courage as she realised that the light was now quite clear enough for him to see her features distinctly and that it was evident he did not know her—"London is such a large place that there must be all sorts in it—good as well as bad—they can't all be greedy for money. There must be people who think beautiful things, and do beautiful work—"

"Oh, there's plenty o' work done there"—and the waggoner flicked his long whip against the sturdy flanks of his labouring horses— "I ain't denyin' that. An' YOU'll 'ave to work, my gel!—you bet! you'll 'ave to wash down steps an' sweep kitchens a good while afore you gits into the way of it! Why not take a service in the country?"

"I'm a little tired of the country," she answered—"I'd like a change."

"An' a change ye're likely to git!" he retorted, somewhat gruffly —"Lor' bless yer 'art! There ain't nothin' like the country! All the trees a-greenin' an' the flowers a-blowin' an' the birds a- singin'! 'Ave ye ever 'era tell of a place called Briar Farm?"

She controlled the nervous start of her body, and replied quietly—

"I think I have. A very old place."

"Ah! Old? I believe ye! 'Twas old in the time o' good Queen Bess— an' the same fam'ly 'as 'ad it these three 'undred years—a fam'ly o' the name o' Jocelyn. Ay, if ye could a' got service wi' Farmer Jocelyn ye'd a' bin in luck's way! But 'e's dead an' gone last week—more's the pity!—an' 'is nephew's got the place now, forbye 'e ain't a Jocelyn."

She was silent, affecting not to be interested. The waggoner went on—

"That's the sort o' place to seek service in! Safe an' clean an' 'onest as the sunshine—good work an' good pay—a deal better than a place in Lunnon. An' country air, my gel!—country air!—nuthin' like it!"

A sudden blaze of gold lit up the trees—the sun was rising—full day was disclosed, and the last filmy curtains of the night were withdrawn, showing a heavenly blue sky flecked lightly with wandering trails of white cloud like swansdown. He pointed eastward with his long whip.

"Look at that!" he said—"Fine, isn't it! No roofs and chimneys— just the woods and fields! Nuthin' like it anywhere!"

Innocent drew a long breath—the air was indeed sweet and keen— new life seemed given to the world with its exhilarating freshness. But she made no reply to the enthusiastic comments of her companion. Thoughts were in her brain too deep for speech. Not here, not here, in this quiet pastoral scene could she learn the way to wrest the golden circlet of fame from the hands of the silent gods!—it must be in the turmoil and rush of endeavour—the swift pursuit of the flying Apollo! And—as the slow waggon jogged along—she felt herself drawn, as it were, by a magnet—on—on— on!—on towards a veiled mystery which waited for her—a mystery which she alone could solve.

Presently they came within sight of several rows of ugly wooden sheds with galvanised iron roofs and short black chimneys.

"A'most there now," said the waggoner—"'Ere's a bit o' Lunnon a'ready!—dirt an' muck and muddle! Where man do make a mess o' things 'e makes a mess all round! Spoils everything 'e can lay 'is 'ands on!"

The approaches to the railway were certainly not attractive—no railway approaches ever are. Perhaps they appear more than usually hideous when built amid a fair green country, where for miles and miles one sees nothing but flowering hedgerows and soft pastures shaded by the graceful foliage of sheltering trees. Then the shining, slippery iron of the railway running like a knife through the verdant bosom of the land almost hurts the eyes, and the accessories of station-sheds, coal-trucks, and the like, affront the taste like an ill-done foreground in an otherwise pleasing picture. A slight sense of depression and foreboding came like a cloud over the mind of poor little lonely Innocent, as she alighted at the station at last, and with uplifted wistful eyes tendered a sovereign to the waggoner.

"Please take as much of it as you think right," she said—"It was very kind of you to let me ride with you."

The man stared, whistled, and thought. Feeling in the depth of a capacious pocket he drew out a handful of silver and counted it over carefully.

"'Ere y'are!" he said, handing it all over with the exception of one half-crown—"Ye'll want all yer change in Lunnon an' more. I'm takin' two bob an' sixpence—if ye thinks it too much, say so!"

"Oh no, no!" and Innocent looked distressed—"Perhaps it's too little—I hope you are not wronging yourself?"

The waggoner laughed, kindly enough.

"Don't ye mind ME!" he said—"I'M all right! If I 'adn't two kids at 'ome I'd charge ye nothin'—but I'm goin' to get 'em a toy they wants, an' I'll take the 'arf-crown for the luck of it. Good-day t'ye! Hope you'll find an easy place!"

She smiled and thanked him,—then entered the station and, finding the ticket-office just open, paid a third-class fare to London. A sudden thrill of nervousness came over her. She spoke to the booking-clerk, peering wistfully at him through his little ticket- aperture.

"I have never been in a train before!" she said, in a small, anxious voice.

The clerk smiled, and yawned expansively. He was a young man who considered himself a "gentleman," and among his own particular set passed for being a wit.

"Really!" he drawled—"Quite a new experience for you! A little country mouse, is it?"

Innocent drew back, offended.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, coldly—and moved away.

The young clerk fingered his embryo moustache dubiously—conscious of a blunder in manners. This girl was a lady—not a mere country wench to joke with. He felt rather uncomfortable—and presently leaving his office, went out on the platform where she was walking up and down, and slightly lifted his cap.

"I beg your pardon!" he said, his face reddening a little—"If you are travelling alone you would like to get into a carriage with other people, wouldn't you?"

"Oh yes!" she answered, eagerly—"If you would be so kind—"

He made no answer, as just then, with a rush and crash and clatter, and deafening shriek of the engine-whistle, the train came thundering in. There was opening and shutting of doors, much banging and confusion, and before she very well knew where she was, Innocent found herself in a compartment with three other persons—one benevolent-looking old gentleman with white hair who was seated opposite to her, and a man and woman, evidently husband and wife. Another shriek and roar, and the train started—as it began to race along, Innocent closed her eyes with a sickening sensation of faintness and terror—then, opening them, saw hedges, fields, trees and ponds all flying past her like scud in the wind, and sat watching in stupefied wonderment—one little hand grasping the satchel that held all her worldly possessions—the other hanging limply at her side. Now and then she looked at her companions—the husband and wife sat opposite each other and spoke occasionally in monosyllables—the old gentleman on the seat facing herself was reading a paper which showed its title—"The Morning Post." Sometimes he looked at her over the top of the paper, but for the most part he appeared absorbed in the printed page. On, on, on, the train rushed at a pace which to her seemed maddening and full of danger—she felt sick and giddy—would it never stop, she thought?—and a deep sense of relief came over her when, with a scream from the engine-whistle loud enough to tear the drum of a sensitive ear, the whole shaking, rattling concern came to an abrupt standstill at a station. Then she mustered up courage to speak.

"Please, would you tell me—" she began, faintly.

The old gentleman laid down his "Morning Post" and surveyed her encouragingly.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Will it be long before we get to London?"

"About three hours."

"Three hours!"

She gave a deep and weary sigh. Three hours! Hardly till then had she realised how far she was from Briar Farm—or how entirely she had cut herself off from all the familiar surroundings of her childhood's home, her girlhood's life. She leaned back in her seat, and one or two tears escaped from under her drooping eyelids and trickled slowly down her cheeks. The train started off again, rushing at what she thought an awful speed,—she imagined herself as being torn away from the peaceful past and hurled into a stormy future. Yet it was her own doing—whatever chanced to her now she would have no one but herself to blame. The events of the past few days had crushed and beaten her so with blows,—the old adage "Misfortunes never come singly" had been fulfilled for her with cruel and unlooked-for plenitude. There is a turning-point in every human life—or rather several turning-points—and at each one are gathered certain threads of destiny which may either be involved in a tangle or woven distinctly as a clue—but which in any case lead to change in the formerly accepted order of things. We may thank the gods that this is so—otherwise in the jog-trot of a carefully treasured conservatism and sameness of daily existence we should become the easy prey of adventurers, who, discovering our desire for the changelessness of a convenient and comfortable routine, would mulct us of all individuality. Our very servants would become our masters, and would take advantage of our easy-going ways to domineer over us, as in the case of "lone ladies" who are often half afraid to claim obedience from the domestics they keep and pay. Ignorant of the ways of the world and full of such dreams as the world considers madness, Innocent had acted on a powerful inward impetus which pushed her spirit towards liberty and independence—but of any difficulties or dangers she might have to encounter she never thought. She had the blind confidence of a child that runs along heedless of falling, being instinctively sure that some hand will be stretched out to save it should it run into positive danger.

Mastering the weakness of tears, she furtively dried her eyes and endeavoured not to think at all—not to dwell on the memory of her "Dad" whom she had loved so tenderly, and all the sweet surroundings of Briar Farm which already seemed so far away. Robin would be sorry she had gone—indeed he would be very miserable for a time—she was certain of that!—and Priscilla! yes, Priscilla had loved her as her own child,—here her thoughts began running riot again, and she moved impatiently. Just then the old gentleman with the "Morning Post" folded it neatly and, bending forward, offered it to her.

"Would you like to see the paper?" he asked, politely.

The warm colour flushed her cheeks—she accepted it shyly.

"Thank you very much!" she murmured—and, gratefully shielding her tearful eyes behind the convenient news-sheet, she began glancing up and down the front page with all its numerous announcements, from the "Agony" column down to the latest new concert-singers and sailings of steamers.

Suddenly her attention was caught by the following advertisement—

"A Lady of good connection and position will be glad to take another lady as Paying Guest in her charming house in Kensington. Would suit anyone studying art or for a scholarship. Liberal table and refined surroundings. Please communicate with 'Lavinia' at—" Here followed an address.

Over and over again Innocent read this with a sort of fascination. Finally, taking from her pocket a little note-book and pencil, she copied it carefully.

"I might go there," she thought—"If she is a poor lady wanting money, she might be glad to have me as a 'paying guest,' Anyhow, it will do no harm to try. I must find some place to rest in, if only for a night."

Here she became aware that the old gentleman who had lent her the paper was eyeing her curiously yet kindly. She met his glance with a mixture of frankness and timidity which gave her expression a wonderful charm. He ventured to speak as he might have spoken to a little child.

"Are you going to London for the first time?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

He smiled. He had a pleasant smile, distinctly humorous and good- natured.

"It's a great adventure!" he said—"Especially for a little girl, all alone."

She coloured.

"I'm not a little girl," she answered, with quaint dignity—"I'm eighteen."

"Really!"—and the old gentleman looked more humorous than ever— "Oh well!—of course you are quite old. But, you see, I am seventy, so to me you seem a little girl. I suppose your friends will meet you in London?"

She hesitated—then answered, simply—

"No. I have no friends. I am going to earn my living."

The old gentleman whistled. It was a short, low whistle at first, but it developed into a bar of "Sally in our Alley," Then he looked round—the other people in the compartment, the husband and wife, were asleep.

"Poor child!" he then said, very gently—"I'm afraid that will be hard work for you. You don't look very strong."

"Oh, but I am!" she replied, eagerly—"I can do anything in housework or dairy-farming—I've been brought up to be useful—"

"That's more than a great many girls can say!" he remarked, smiling—"Well, well! I hope you may succeed! I also was brought up to be useful—but I'm not sure that I have ever been of any use!"

She looked at him with quick interest.

"Are you a clever man?" she asked.

The simplicity of the question amused him, and he laughed.

"A few people have sometimes called me so," he answered—"but my 'cleverness,' or whatever it may be, is not of the successful order. And I'm getting old now, so that most of my activity is past. I have written a few books—"

"Books!"—she clasped her hands nervously, and her eyes grew brilliant—"Oh! If you can write books you must always be happy!"

"Do you think so?" And he bent his brows and scrutinised her more intently. "What do YOU know about it? Are you fond of reading?"

A deep blush suffused her fair skin.

"Yes—but I have only read very old books for the most part," she said—"In the farm-house where I was brought up there were a great many manuscripts on vellum, and curious things—I read those—and some books in old French—"

"Books in old French!" he echoed, wonderingly. "And you can read them? You are quite a French scholar, then?"

"Oh no, indeed!" she protested—"I have only taught myself a little. Of course it was difficult at first,—but I soon managed it,—just as I learned how to read old English—I mean the English of Queen Elizabeth's time. I loved it all so much that it was a pleasure to puzzle it out. We had a few modern books—but I never cared for them."

He studied her face with increasing interest.

"And you are going to earn your own living in London!" he said— "Have you thought of a way to begin? In old French, or old English?"

She glanced at him quickly and saw that he was smiling kindly.

"Yes," she answered, gently—"I have thought of a way to begin! Will you tell me of some book you have written so that I may read it?"

He shook his head.

"Not I!" he declared—"I could not stand the criticism of a young lady who might compare me with the writers of the Elizabethan period—Shakespeare, for instance—"

"Ah no!" she said—"No one can ever be compared with Shakespeare— that is impossible!"

He was silent,—and as she resumed her reading of the "Morning Post" he had lent her, he leaned back in his seat and left her to herself. But he was keenly interested,—this young, small creature with her delicate, intelligent face and wistful blue-grey eyes was a new experience for him. He was a well-seasoned journalist and man of letters,—clever in his own line and not without touches of originality in his work—but hardly brilliant or forceful enough to command the attention of the public to a large or successful issue. He was, however, the right hand and chief power on the staff of one of the most influential of daily newspapers, whose proprietor would no more have thought of managing things without him than of going without a dinner, and from this post, which he had held for twenty years, he derived a sufficiently comfortable income. In his profession he had seen all classes of humanity—the wise and the ignorant,—the conceited and the timid,—men who considered themselves new Shakespeares in embryo,—women in whom the unbounded vanity of a little surface cleverness was sufficient to place them beyond the pale of common respect,—but he had never till now met a little country girl making her first journey to London who admitted reading "old French" and Elizabethan English as unconcernedly as she might have spoken of gathering apples or churning cream. He determined not to lose sight of her, and to improve the acquaintance if he got the chance. He heard her give a sudden sharp sigh as she read the "Morning Post,"—she had turned to the middle of the newspaper where the events of the day were chronicled, and where a column of fashionable intelligence announced the ephemeral doings of the so-called "great" of the world. Here one paragraph had caught and riveted her attention—it ran thus—"Lord and Lady Blythe have left town for Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire, where they will entertain a large house-party to meet the Prime Minister."

Her mother!—It was difficult to believe that but a few hours ago this very Lady Blythe had offered to "adopt" her!—"adopt" her own child and act a lie in the face of all the "society" she frequented,—yet, strange and fantastic as it seemed, it was true! Possibly she—Innocent—had she chosen, could have been taken to "Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire!"—she too might have met the Prime Minister! She almost laughed at the thought of it!—the paper shook in her hand. Her "mother"! Just then the old gentleman bent forward again and spoke to her.

"We are very near London now," he said—"Can I help you at the station to get your luggage? You might find it confusing at first—"

"Oh, thank you!" she murmured—"But I have no luggage—only this" —and she pointed to the satchel beside her—"I shall get on very well."

Here she folded up the "Morning Post" and returned it to him with a pretty air of courtesy. As he accepted it he smiled.

"You are a very independent little lady!" he said—"But—just in case you ever do want to read a book of mine,—I am going to give you my name and address." Here he took a card from his waistcoat pocket and gave it to her. "That will always find me," he continued—"Don't be afraid to write and ask me anything about London you may wish to know. It's a very large city—a cruel one!"—and he looked at her with compassionate kindness—"You mustn't lose yourself in it!"

She read the name on the card—"John Harrington"—and the address was the office of a famous daily journal. Looking up, she gave him a grateful little smile.

"You are very kind!" she said—"And I will not forget you. I don't think I shall lose myself—I'll try not to be so stupid! Yes—when I have read one of your books I will write to you!"

"Do!"—and there was almost a note of eagerness in his voice—"I should like to know what you think"—here a loud and persistent scream from the engine-whistle drowned all possibility of speech as the train rushed past a bewildering wilderness of houses packed close together under bristling black chimneys—then, as the deafening din ceased, he added, quietly, "Here is London."

She looked out of the window,—the sun was shining, but through a dull brown mist, and nothing but bricks and mortar, building upon building, met her view. After the sweet freshness of the country she had left behind, the scene was appallingly hideous, and her heart sank with a sense of fear and foreboding. Another few minutes and the train stopped.

"This is Paddington," said John Harrington; then, noting her troubled expression—"Let me get a taxi for you and tell the man where to drive."

She submitted in a kind of stunned bewilderment. The address she had found in the "Morning Post" was her rescue—she could go there, she thought, rapidly, even if she had to come away again. Almost before she could realise what had happened in all the noise and bustling to and fro, she found herself in a taxi-cab, and her kind fellow-traveller standing beside it, raising his hat to her courteously in farewell. She gave him the address of the house in Kensington which she had copied from the advertisement she had seen in the "Morning Post," and he repeated it to the taxi-driver with a sense of relief and pleasure. It was what is called "a respectable address"—and he was glad the child knew where she was going. In another moment the taxi was off,—a parting smile brightened the wistful expression of her young face, and she waved her little hand to him. And then she was whirled away among the seething crowd of vehicles and lost to sight. Old John Harrington stood for a moment on the railway-platform, lost in thought.

"A sweet little soul!" he mused—"I wonder what will become of her! I must see her again some day. She reminds me of—let me see!—who does she remind me of? By Jove, I have it! Pierce Armitage!—haven't seen him for twenty years at least—and this girl's face has a look of his—just the same eyes and intense expression. Poor old Armitage!—he promised to be a great artist once, but he's gone to the dogs by this time, I suppose. Curious, curious that I should remember him just now!"

And he went his way, thinking and wondering, while Innocent went hers, without any thought at all, in a blind and simple faith that God would take care of her.



CHAPTER XII

To be whirled along through the crowded streets of London in a taxi-cab for the first time in one's life must needs be a somewhat disconcerting, even alarming experience, and Innocent was the poor little prey of so many nervous fears during her journey to Kensington in this fashion, that she could think of nothing and realise nothing except that at any moment it seemed likely she would be killed. With wide-open, terrified eyes, she watched the huge motor-omnibuses almost bearing down upon the vehicle in which she sat, and shivered at the narrow margin of space the driver seemed to allow for any sort of escape from instant collision and utter disaster. She only began to breathe naturally again when, turning away out of the greater press of traffic, the cab began to run at a smoother and less noisy pace, till presently, in less time than she could have imagined possible, it drew up at a modestly retreating little door under an arched porch in a quiet little square, where there were some brave and pretty trees doing their best to be green, despite London soot and smoke. Innocent stepped out, and seeing a bell-handle pulled it timidly. The summons was answered by a very neat maid-servant, who looked at her in primly polite enquiry.

"Is Mrs.—or Miss 'Lavinia' at home?" she murmured. "I saw her advertisement in the 'Morning Post.'"

The servant's face changed from primness to propitiation.

"Oh yes, miss! Please step in! I'll tell Miss Leigh."

"Thank you. I'll pay the driver."

She thereupon paid for the cab and dismissed it, and then followed the maid into a very small but prettily arranged hall, and from thence into a charming little drawing-room, with French windows set open, showing a tiny garden beyond—a little green lawn, smooth as velvet, and a few miniature flower-beds gay with well- kept blossoms.

"Would you please take a seat, miss?" and the maid placed a chair. "Miss Leigh is upstairs, but she'll be down directly."

She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Innocent sat still, satchel in hand, looking wistfully about her. The room appealed to her taste in its extreme simplicity—and it instinctively suggested to her mind resigned poverty making the best of itself. There were one or two old miniatures on little velvet stands set on the mantelpiece—these were beautiful, and of value; some engravings of famous pictures adorned the walls, all well chosen; the quaint china bowl on the centre table was full of roses carefully arranged—and there was a very ancient harpsichord in one corner which apparently served only as a stand for the portrait of a man's strikingly handsome face, near which was placed a vase containing a stem of Madonna lilies. Innocent found herself looking at this portrait now and again—there was something familiar in its expression which had a curious fascination for her. But her thoughts revolved chiefly round a difficulty which had just presented itself—she had no real name. What name could she take to be known by for the moment? She would not call herself "Jocelyn"—she felt she had no right to do so. "Ena" might pass muster for an abbreviation of "Innocent"—she decided to make use of that as a Christian name—but a surname that would be appropriately fitted to her ultimate intentions she could not at once select. Then she suddenly thought of the man who had been her father and had brought her as a helpless babe to Briar Farm. Pierce Armitage was his name—and he was dead. Surely she might call herself Armitage? While she was still puzzling her mind over the question the door opened and a little old lady entered—a soft-eyed, pale, pretty old lady, as dainty and delicate as the fairy-godmother of a child's dream, with white hair bunched on either side of her face, and a wistful, rather plaintive expression of mingled hope and enquiry.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she began—then paused in a kind of embarrassment. The two looked at each other. Innocent spoke, a little shyly:

"I saw your advertisement in the 'Morning Post,'" she said, "and I thought perhaps—I thought that I might come to you as a paying guest. I have to live in London, and I shall be very busy studying all day, so I should not give you much trouble."

"Pray do not mention it!" said the old lady, with a quaint air of old-fashioned courtesy. "Trouble would not be considered! But you are a much younger person than I expected or wished to accommodate."

"You said in the advertisement that it would be suitable for a person studying art, or for a scholarship," put in Innocent, quickly. "And I am studying for literature."

"Are you indeed?" and the old lady waved a little hand in courteous deprecation of all unnecessary explanation—a hand which Innocent noticed had a delicate lace mitten on it and one or two sparkling rings. "Well, let us sit down together and talk it over. I have two spare rooms—a bedroom and a sitting-room—they are small but very comfortable, and for these I have been told I should ask three guineas a week, including board. I feel it a little difficult"—and the old lady heaved a sigh—"I have never done this kind of thing before—I don't know what my poor father, Major Leigh, would have said—he was a very proud man—very proud—!"

While she thus talked, Innocent had been making a rapid calculation in her own mind. Three guineas a week! It was more than she had meant to pay, but she was instinctively wise enough to realise the advantage of safety and shelter in this charming little home of one who was evidently a lady, gentle, kindly, and well-mannered. She had plenty of money to go on with—and in the future she hoped to make more. So she spoke out bravely.

"I will pay the three guineas a week gladly," she said. "May I see the rooms?"

The old lady meanwhile had been studying her with great intentness, and now asked abruptly—

"Are you an English girl?"

Innocent flushed a sudden rosy red.

"Yes. I was brought up in the country, but all my people are dead now. I have no friends, but I have a little money left to me—and for the rest—I must earn my own living."

"Well, my dear, that won't hurt you!" and an encouraging smile brightened Miss Leigh's pleasantly wrinkled face. "You shall see the rooms. But you have not told me your name yet."

Again Innocent blushed.

"My name is Armitage," she said, in a low, hesitating tone—"Ena Armitage."

"Armitage!"—Miss Leigh repeated the name with a kind of wondering accent—"Armitage? Are you any relative of the painter, Pierce Armitage?"

The girl's heart beat quickly—for a moment the little drawing- room seemed to whirl round her—then she collected her forces with a strong effort and answered—"No!"

The old lady's wistful blue eyes, dimmed with age, yet retaining a beautiful tenderness of expression, rested upon her anxiously.

"You are quite sure?"

Repressing the feeling that prompted her to cry out—"He was my father!" she replied—

"I am quite sure!"

Lavinia Leigh raised her little mittened hand and pointed to the portrait standing on the harpsichord:

"That was Pierce Armitage!" she said. "He was a dear friend of mine"—her voice trembled a little—"and I should have been glad if you had been in any way connected with him."

As she spoke Innocent turned and looked steadily at the portrait, and it seemed to her excited fancy that its eyes gave her glance for glance. She could hardly breathe—the threatening tears half choked her. What strange fate was it, she thought, that had led her to a house where she looked upon her own father's likeness for the first time!

"He was a very fine man," continued Miss Leigh in the same half- tremulous voice—"very gifted—very clever! He would have been a great artist, I think—"

"Is he dead?" the girl asked, quietly.

"Yes—I—I think so—he died abroad—so they say, but I have never quite believed it—I don't know why! Come, let me show you the rooms. I am glad your name is Armitage."

She led the way, walking slowly,—Innocent followed like one in a dream. They ascended a small staircase, softly carpeted, to a square landing, and here Miss Leigh opened a door.

"This is the sitting-room," she said. "You see, it has a nice bow- window with a view of the garden. The bedroom is just beyond it— both lead into one another."

Innocent looked in and could not resist giving a little exclamation of pleasure. Everything was so clean and dainty and well kept—it seemed to her a perfect haven of rest and shelter. She turned to Miss Leigh in eager impulsiveness.

"Oh, please let me stay!" she said. "Now, at once! I have only just arrived in London and this is the first place I have seen. It seems so—so fortunate that you should have had a friend named Armitage! Perhaps—perhaps I may be a friend too!"

A curious tremor seemed to pass over the old lady as though she shivered in a cold wind. She laid one hand gently on the girl's arm.

"You may, indeed!" she said. "One never can tell what may happen in this strange world! But we have to be practical—and I am very poor and pressed for money. I do not know you—and of course I should expect references from some respectable person who can tell me who you are and all about you."

Innocent grew pale. She gave a little expressive gesture of utter hopelessness.

"I cannot give you any references," she said—"I am quite alone in the world—my people are dead—you see I am in mourning. The last friend I had died a little while ago and left me four hundred pounds in bank-notes. I have them here"—and she touched her breast—"and if you like I will give you one of them in advance payment for the rooms and board at once."

The old lady heaved a quick sharp sigh. One hundred pounds! It would relieve her of a weight of pressing difficulty—and yet—! She paused, considering.

"No, my child!" she said, quietly. "I would not on any account take so much money from you. If you wish to stay, and if I must omit references and take you on trust—which I am quite willing to do!"—and she smiled, gravely—"I will accept two months' rent in advance if you think you can spare this—can you?"

"Yes—oh, yes!" the girl exclaimed, impulsively. "If only I may stay—now!"

"You may certainly stay now," and Miss Leigh rang a bell to summon the neat maid-servant. "Rachel, the rooms are let to this young lady, Miss Armitage. Will you prepare the bedroom and help her unpack her things?" Then, turning round to Innocent, she said kindly,—"You will of course take your meals with me at my table— I keep very regular hours, and if for any cause you have to be absent, I should wish to know beforehand."

Innocent said nothing;—her eyes were full of tears, but she took the old lady's little hand and kissed it. They went down together again to the drawing-room, Innocent just pausing to tell the maid Rachel that she would prefer to unpack and arrange the contents of her satchel—all her luggage,—herself; and in a very few minutes the whole business was settled. Eager to prove her good faith to the gentle lady who had so readily trusted her, she drew from her bosom the envelope containing the bank-notes left to her by Hugo Jocelyn, and, unfolding all four, she spread them out on the table.

"You see," she said, "this is my little fortune! Please change one of them and take the two months' rent and anything more you want— please do!"

A faint colour flushed Miss Leigh's pale cheeks.

"No, my dear, no!" she answered. "You must not tempt me! I will take exactly the two months' rent and no more; but I think you ought not to carry this money about with you—you should put it in a bank. We'll talk of this afterwards—but go and lock it up somewhere now—there's a little desk in your room you could use— but a bank would be safest. After dinner this evening I'll tell you what I think you ought to do—you are so very young!"—and she smiled—"such a young little thing! I shall have to look after you and play chaperone!"

Innocent looked up with a sweet confidence in her eyes.

"That will be kind of you!" she said, and leaving the one bank- note of a hundred pounds on the table, she folded up the other three in their original envelope and returned them to their secret place of safety. "In a little while I will tell you a great deal about myself—and I do hope I shall please you! I will not give any trouble, and I'll try to be useful in the house if you'll let me. I can cook and sew and do all sorts of things!"

"Can you, indeed!" and Miss Leigh laughed good-naturedly. "And what about studying for literature?"

"Ah!—that of course comes first!" she said. "But I shall do all my writing in the mornings—in the afternoons I can help you as much as you like."

"My dear, your time must be your own," said Miss Leigh, decisively. "You have paid for your accommodation, and you must have perfect liberty to do as you like, as long as you keep to my regular hours for meals and bed-time. I think we shall get on well together,—and I hope we shall be good friends!"

As she spoke she bent forward and on a sudden impulse drew the girl to her and kissed her. Poor lonely Innocent thrilled through all her being to the touch of instinctive tenderness, and her heart beat quickly as she saw the portrait on the harpsichord—her father's pictured face—apparently looking at her with a smile.

"Oh, you are very good to me!" she murmured, with a little sob in her breath, as she returned the gentle old lady's kiss. "I feel as if I had known you for years! Did you know him"—and she pointed to the portrait—"very long?"

Miss Leigh's eyes grew bright and tender.

"Yes!" she answered. "We were boy and girl together—and once— once we were very fond of each other. Perhaps I will tell you the story some day! Now go up to your rooms and arrange everything as you like, and rest a little. Would you like some tea? Anything to eat?"

Poor Innocent, who had left Briar Farm at dawn without any thought of food, and had travelled to London almost unconscious of either hunger or fatigue, was beginning to feel the lack of nourishment, and she gratefully accepted the suggestion.

"I lunch at two o'clock," continued Miss Leigh. "But it's only a little past twelve now, and if you have come a long way from the country you must be tired. I'll send Rachel up to you with some tea."

She went to give the order, and Innocent, left to herself for a moment, moved softly up to her father's picture and gazed upon it with all her soul in her eyes. It was a wonderful face—a face expressive of the highest thought and intelligence—the face of a thinker or a poet, though the finely moulded mouth and chin had nothing of the weakness which sometimes marks a mere dreamer of dreams. Timidly glancing about her to make sure she was not observed, she kissed the portrait, the cold glass which covered it meeting her warm caressing lips with a repelling chill. He was dead—this father whom she could never claim!—dead as Hugo Jocelyn, who had taken that father's place in her life. She might love the ghost of him if her fancy led her that way, as she loved the ghost of the "Sieur Amadis"—but there was nothing else to love! She was alone in the world, with neither father nor "knight of old" to protect or defend her, and on herself alone depended her future. She turned away and left the room, looking a fragile, sad, unobtrusive little creature, with nothing about her to suggest either beauty or power. Yet the mind in that delicate body had a strength of which she was unconscious, and she was already bending it instinctively and intellectually like a bow ready for the first shot—with an arrow which was destined to go straight to its mark.

Meanwhile on Briar Farm there had fallen a cloud of utter desolation. The day was fair and brilliant with summer sunshine, the birds sang, the roses bloomed, the doves flew to and fro on the gabled roof, and Innocent's pet "Cupid" waited in vain on the corner of her window-sill for the usual summons that called it to her hand,—but a strange darkness and silence like a whelming wave submerged the very light from the eyes of those who suddenly found themselves deprived of a beloved presence—a personality unobtrusively sweet, which had bestowed on the old house a charm and grace far greater than had been fully recognised. The "base- born" Innocent, nameless, and unbaptised, and therefore shadowed by the stupid scandal of commonplace convention, had given the "home" its homelike quality—her pretty idealistic fancies about the old sixteenth-century knight "Sieur Amadis" had invested the place with a touch of romance and poetry which it would hardly have possessed with-out her—her gentle ways, her care of the flowers and the animals, and the never-wearying delight she had taken in the household affairs—all her part in the daily life of the farm had been as necessary to happiness as the mastership of Hugo Jocelyn himself—and without her nothing seemed the same. Poor Priscilla went about her work, crying silently, and Robin Clifford paced restlessly up and down the smooth grass in front of the old house with Innocent's farewell letter in his hand, reading it again and again. He had returned early from the market town where he had stayed the night, eager to explain to her all the details of the business he had gone through with the lawyer to whom his Uncle Hugo had entrusted his affairs, and to tell her how admirably everything had been arranged for the prosperous continuance of Briar Farm on the old traditional methods of labour by which it had always been worked to advantage. Hugo Jocelyn had indeed shown plenty of sound wisdom and foresight in all his plans save one—and that one was his fixed idea of Innocent's marriage with his nephew. It had evidently never occurred to him that a girl could have a will of her own in such a momentous affair—much less that she could or would be so unwise as to refuse a good husband and a settled home when both were at hand for her acceptance. Robin himself, despite her rejection of him, had still hoped and believed that when the first shock of his uncle's death had lessened, he might by patience and unwearying tenderness move her heart to softer yielding, and he had meant to plead his cause with her for the sake of the famous old house itself, so that she might become its mistress and help him to prove a worthy descendant of its long line of owners. But now! All hope was at an end—she had taken the law into her own hands and gone—no one knew whither. Priscilla was the last who had seen her—Priscilla could only explain, with many tears, that when she had gone to call her to breakfast she had found her room vacant, her bed unslept in, and the letter for Robin on the table—and that letter disclosed little or nothing of her intentions.

"Oh, the poor child!" Priscilla said, sobbingly. "All alone in a hard world, with her strange little fancies, and no one to take care of her! Oh, Mr. Robin, whatever are we to do!"

"Nothing!" and Robin's handsome face was pale and set. "We can only wait to hear from her—she will not keep us long in anxiety— she has too much heart for that. After all, it is MY fault, Priscilla! I tried to persuade her to marry me against her will—I should have let her alone."

Sudden boyish tears sprang to his eyes—he dashed them away in self-contempt.

"I'm a regular coward, you see," he said. "I could cry like a baby—not for myself so much, but to think of her running away from Briar Farm out into the wide world all alone! Little Innocent! She was safe here—and if she had wished it, I would have gone away—I would have made HER the owner of the farm, and left her in peace to enjoy it and to marry any other man she fancied. But she wouldn't listen to any plan for her own happiness since she knew she was not my uncle's daughter—that is what has changed her! I wish she had never known!"

"Ay, so do I!" agreed Priscilla, dolefully. "But she's got the fancifullest notions! All about that old stone knight in the garden—an' what wi' the things he's left carved all over the wall of the room where she read them queer old books, she's fair 'mazed with ideas that don't belong to the ways o' the world at all. I can't think what'll become o' the child. Won't there be any means of findin' out where she's gone?"

"I'm afraid not!" answered Robin, sadly. "We muse trust to her remembrance of us, Priscilla, and her thoughts of the old home where she was loved and cared for." His voice shook. "It will be a dreary place without her! We shall miss her every minute, every hour of the day! I cannot fancy what the garden will look like without her little white figure flitting over the grass, and her sweet fair face smiling among the roses! Hang it all, Priscilla, if it were not for the last wishes of my Uncle Hugo I'd throw the whole thing up and go abroad!"