"My friends generally call me Tony," said a voice, the youthful growl of which was subdued to all possible softness.

"We have known each other such a little while," replied Pamela, looking down at the ground, which had begun to cover itself in the flying gold of the autumn woods.

"As the calendar counts; but we—'we count time by heart-throbs'—doesn't somebody say that?"

A colour, like a pink rose-leaf, warmed in Pamela's clear cheek.

"We have become very good friends," she said, "seeing that it is only six—or is it seven?—weeks ago since we met."

"It is eight," said the youth. "I came in mid-July, and now it is mid-September. But it sometimes seems to me that I have always been here, and that my life elsewhere was but a dream."

"If that were so," she said demurely—and for a moment the violet eyes looked up at him under their shadow of night—"if that were so, then I might really call you by your name, Sir Anthony. But it is too soon."

"Then you will one day, Miss Pamela? How many days must go by first? You called that other man—St. Leger—by his name. It is 'Mick' with all of you."

"Ah," said Pamela, again with the bewildering glance; "but Mick was Mick, you see."

A sudden irrational anger kindled in the young man's eye, and his expression stiffened.

"Oh, I see," he said. "This paragon had special privileges which no one else may hope to share."

"He certainly had," said Pamela. "For no one else would endure them, poor dear!"

"Now, what do you mean by that?" he said doubtfully. "Do you mean the privilege of being called by his name?"

"No, but the privilege of my society and Sylvia's."

"He must have been jolly hard to please."

"He wasn't, then. He was as easily pleased as a child. I should like to have seen you in some of the situations in which Mick distinguished himself."

"I daresay I'd be very undistinguished. I make no pretence of being a paragon."

"It would be useless to, Sir Anthony."

"I don't dispute it, Miss Pamela. I suppose we'd better be making for home?"

He turned and walked sulkily along the forest path with the girl by his side. For a second there was silence; then Pamela broke it by saying softly:

"I often have thought that one reason why Molly fell in love with Mick was because she pitied him so much. He came to the wall in all our escapades. Of course, he was always in love with Molly, but I believe it was in protecting him from us that she became so fond of him."

"He is your sister's lover, then?" incredulously.

"Why, of course he is. Whose did you suppose he was?"

"Yours, Miss Pamela."

"Mine! why, he'd never look at me when Molly was by. Besides, you don't know how horribly we ill-used the poor dear fellow."

"Miss Pam, I wish you'd ill-use me."

"You wouldn't like it at all, Sir Anthony."

"Yes, I should, Miss Pamela. So Mick is engaged to your sister. What an ass I have been!"

"Yes, poor dears, they are engaged, without the remotest prospect of ever being married that I can see. Mick's a subaltern in a line regiment, with just his pay—he got in through the Militia—and Molly, needless to say, hasn't a penny."

"He's a lucky fellow, all the same. And now, Miss Pamela, what have we been quarrelling about?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Sir Anthony. Have we been quarrelling?"

"I have."

"But I haven't. I did think you were a little cross about something. But here is the Wishing Well that I told you about."

They had come on a little glade of the forest, in the midst of which was a brier heavy with blackberries. The bush hooded a little space, and, looking underneath, one saw, as in a cup, a still depth of water over pebbles of gold and silver.

"You are to drink, Sir Anthony, without spilling a drop, and think on your wish at the same time."

"Drink from what, Miss Pamela?"

"Why, from your hands, of course."

"I couldn't; the water would all run away."

"No, it wouldn't. See how I manage it."

The girl scooped the water into her rosy palms and drank it slowly. Then she looked at him, and again the wave of rose flowed in her cheek.

"I never could manage it; I'm such a duffer at things. Miss Pamela, would you let me drink from your hands? Do!"

Without a word she stooped and lifted the water and held it to him. He drank from the rosy cup to the last drop. Then he suddenly caught the hands that had served him, and pressed them to his lips. For a moment they were yielded to him, and then the girl drew back. He thought she trembled a little, and the ardour in his gaze grew.

"I am sorry," he said, "but I couldn't help it. You are not angry, Miss Pamela?"

"I am going home, Sir Anthony," she said.

"Not till you tell me one thing——"

He barred her way, putting himself in front of her. "Tell me what you wished for."

Her eyes fell before his, and as she stood with her hands clasped, and her head bent, she was a different creature from the wild Pamela of a few short weeks ago. The sunlight through the thinned branches fell on her short curls, for her hat—which she had been swinging by a ribbon—had fallen to her feet.

"Look at me," he said; "I want to see what is in your eyes."

She lifted them obediently, and then let them fall again.

"Ah, that is enough," he said, with exultation in his voice. "You have answered me, Pam. That is enough just for the present. Some day I shall tell you what I wished for, and we shall see if our wishes come true. A double wish should have double force to induce its fulfilment. Isn't it so, Pam?"

She said nothing, and he looked at her with triumph shining in his eyes. Blent with it was the tenderness of a lover when he knows he is loved, and just a shade of shamefacedness as well.

"We must be wise, little beautiful Pamela," he said presently, in a low voice. "We must be wise and wait. I mustn't ask yet all I would ask, but I will one day—one good day, Pamela. You will trust me, won't you?"

"Yes," said Pamela, hardly knowing what she was asked.

"It will not be for long. Indeed, I could not endure it for long. Shall we be friends for a little while longer, Pamela darling?"

"Yes," said Pamela, forgetting to rebuke him.

"After to-day I will not call you darling till I have the right before all the world. After to-day. I meant to have held my tongue, but you bewildered me, Pamela. You are not angry with me?"

"No," came almost in a whisper.

"Lift up your eyes to me and say it. That is right. How beautiful your eyes are, Pamela! Say 'Tony,' now."

"Tony!"

"Dear Tony."

"Dear Tony!"

"How sweetly you say it! It is like silver in your voice. But, come now, we will go home. I have to be wise, you know. Ah, Pamela, Pamela! why did you bring me to the Wishing Well?"

"You wanted to go."

"Yes, I know; but it was an accident that we were alone, or it was Fate—yes, it was surely Fate that sent Miss Spencer's carriage for your sister at the last moment, so that we had to take our walk without her. Shall we go now, and talk no more about love to-day?"

Pamela hesitated, and then said:

"Poor Sylvia! She has spent this lovely afternoon shut up with an old lady and a dog."

"She wouldn't mind the dog, I fancy, Pam."

"Nor the old lady. Sylvia is fond of Miss Spencer, strange as it may seem."

"Why is it strange, Pam? I can't help using the sweet little name."

He had taken her hand by this time, and they were walking like children down the aisle of golden trees.

"You haven't seen Miss Spencer. She is a little mad and a little grotesque to most people. But she is devoted to Sylvia, and Sylvia to her. She is not mad to Sylvia."

"How does it come that I haven't seen Miss Spencer?"

"She has been abroad. You'll see her one of these days, I expect. She was crossed in love in her youth, and it seems to have made her strange in ways. She's immensely wealthy, and gives a good deal in charity, but mostly among single women. She seems to think that those who have husbands and children don't need pity."

"She's quite safe for your sister to be with?"

"Oh, quite. She has all her senses, only that she's a trifle peculiar. She's a splendid business woman, everyone says."

"It is a curious friendship. I should never have supposed it of Miss Sylvia."

"No. One funny thing is that Miss Spencer's full of sentiment—wait till you hear her sing 'She wore a Wreath of Roses'—whereas Sylvia's quite without sentiment, and laughs at everything sentimental."

"I feel sorry for the poor old thing," said Sir Anthony, with a half-ashamed laugh, "because she was crossed in love. I shouldn't like to be crossed in love myself, Pamela."

"It was cruel," said Pamela simply. "The man made her love him, and then went away and never came back. She was poor then. She inherited Dovercourt quite unexpectedly."

"What a sweep he must have been!"

"Come along, Trevithick," he cried, rushing away.