“And now, I look almost as smart as the Princess Dove herself.”

“I really think you do, Fluff, though you remember her dress was a curious embroidery of rainbows and dew-drops sewn all over with peacocks’ eyes; but I assure you I like your white frock much better; and the new hat is very pretty.”

“But Fern!—”

“But Fluff!—”

“If I were to be lost—really and truly lost, you know—would the funny old town-crier tell a long story about me as he did about the dog when we were down by the sea last summer?”

“Of course he would, and mother and I would stand and listen to him and try not to laugh. ‘Lost, stolen, or strayed, a little witch-girl in a clean white frock, rather too much starched; a frilled cape that crackles when she moves, and a pretty broad-brimmed hat.’ Well, Fluffy, what does that mysterious look mean? you are very rude to interrupt the old crier,” and Fern tried to frown, while Fluff nodded her head sagaciously.

“It would not be stolen or lost, it would be strayed like the sheep in the turnip-field, when the shepherd turned them all out because they had no business there. Supposing I strayed on purpose, Fern, you must send a crier covered all over with gold lace to find me.”

“Indeed! have you lost your senses, Fluff?”

“Never mind the senses; I saw them all five in china in Mrs. Watkins’s left hand corner-cupboard, china images she called them, and I thought them so pretty. Give me the fourpence half-penny for buns, Fern—one Bath, two plain, and a half-penny to the sweeper that takes me best over the crossing.”

“Oh, Fluff, Fluff, do be careful, and mind you do not go too far; come back soon, like a good child.”

“Of course I am good on my birthday. What did they do to Ananias and Sapphira, Fern?”

“Dear me, what an odd question, Fluffy!”

“Never mind that; in the Sunday-school the teacher always answers the children’s questions directly; she is a very nice teacher though she has red hair, but she can not help that.”

“Oh, indeed! so I must tell you about Ananias and Sapphira. What is the matter? how pale you look, my pet. Well, they fell down dead because they had told a lie.”

Fluff shifted her pence uneasily.

“That was the lie they told about the land and money that they wanted to keep themselves. I think they were greedy people; one Bath, two plain, and a half-penny for the sweeper. Here is the fourpence, Fern; I don’t think I shall be hungry until tea-time. Now, good-bye, I must go.”

“Why, Fluff, what nonsense! here, Fluff;” but Fluff was scuttling down-stairs as fast as she could go, and Fern was only in time to see her little feet whisking through the shop door.

“I don’t believe there is such another child in the United Kingdom,” she said to herself, laughing. “She is terribly young for her age, but so amusing; how dull it will be without her this afternoon, and poor Crystal so far away, I wish mother had not let her go, or that she were safe home again;” and Fern sighed as she looked round the empty room.

Now it so happened that Fluff had coaxed her mother to let her take a walk alone on her birthday; this was the treat she had selected for the occasion.

She was to wear her best frock and her new hat that Crystal had trimmed for her as a parting present; and she had promised to be very careful, and not go too far. The four-pence was to be expended in buns—so she and her mother had arranged, but Fluff had secretly intended to put it to another purpose, until her conscientious scruples had obliged her to leave it at home instead of paying the omnibus fare that was to save her poor little legs; they would get sorely tired before they reached their destination.

Fluff ran down several streets, till she was out of breath, and then she fell into a little trot; but first she gave the half-penny to a ragged boy, and begged him earnestly never to tell stories; and after that she asked him the way to Belgravia. Not getting a lucid answer from him, as he only told her that he had been a cripple from his birth and had sold lucifers ever since, which, being brimstone, was bad for the rheumatics, Fluff told him that she would have repeated the whole story of Ananias and Sapphira to him, only she had no time, and then she resumed her walk with much dignity.

And the method of it was this—if method it could be called which had, in its sidelong movements, the similitude of a crab. First she went into every baker’s shop she passed, and, shaking her head sorrowfully at the fresh currant-buns on the counters, asked in a confidential whisper the quickest and shortest way to Belgravia; and when they wished to know what part, or asked her business, in a kindly way, she pursed up her mouth and said that was not the question, and would they please confine themselves to facts, or some such speech, in her odd abrupt way.

And she looked such a little lady as she spoke, and held her little head up so proudly, that most of them answered her with civility; and one big baker’s boy, just starting on his afternoon round, said he would see her past the dangerous crossing in the next street, and put her a little on her way. Fluff said she was very much obliged to him, and trotted confidingly by his side, adapting her conversation to her hearer as she thought best, for she enlarged in a rambling way on the Miracle of the Loaves, and told him what her teacher said on the subject of the fishes; and then she became confidential, and explained to him that she bore an innocent partiality for the moist peely bits of soft crusts that one could pare off a loaf without showing a sad deficiency, and how she always liked to take in the bread at Mrs. Watkins’s for the purpose; and lastly, she told him in a weary little voice that she was going to see grandpapa, who lived in a big house in Belgravia, but that she was getting very tired, for she had a bone in her leg—two bones, she thought—and might she sit please on the top of his little cart to rest her poor legs when he went into the next house?

The baker’s boy was a good-natured fellow, but, as he expressed it afterward, he thought her the rummiest little lady he had ever met; indeed, he confided his suspicions to a grocer’s lad that she “was a bit cracky;” but he let her sit on his cart for all that, and trundled her the length of two or three streets; and further revived her drooping spirits by a dab of hot brown bread, scooped skillfully out of the side of a loaf which, as he said, would never show.

After that they got facetious, and admired a Punch and Judy show together, and parted with deep regret, when a policeman desired them to move on.

Fluff began to feel rather lonely after this. It was getting late, she was afraid, and those little legs of hers ached dreadfully; but she fell in at the park gates with a playful flower-girl, who ran a race with her, basket and all, and then stood and jeered in broad Irish because she was beaten, while Fluff sat down, sulky and exhausted, on a bench under the trees.

It was nearly tea-time now, she thought; in another hour or so Fern would be sending the old crier after her. She wondered how she was to get back. She was very thirsty, and felt half inclined to cry; and then it struck her that the large splendid-looking building opposite might be Belgrave House, and she ran up to a workman just passing and asked him.

“No,” he said, eying her wondering, “that was not Belgrave House, it was in the next square;” and when she heard that she clapped her hands joyfully, and went and drank out of a little iron bowl in company with a sweep. She asked him if she might drink first, and he said, “Oh, laws, yes! you ain’t near so smutty as me,” which speech Fluff took as a compliment. But she had fallen down twice, and her nice white frock had got unsightly patches of green on it.

But she felt as though her troubles were over when she stood in front of Belgrave House, its many windows shining like gold.

What a grand place it was—finer than the Crystal Ball Palace where Princess Dove and Prince Merrydew lived; and, oh dear, what joy, the door was open!

The footman had just run out to the pillar box, and another footman was fast asleep in a chair that looked like a baby’s cradle turned upside down.

Fluff ran up the steps and looked in.

There was a beautiful scent of flowers as she crept timidly into the hall, such sleepy warm flowers Fluff thought, only they made her head drowsy; and there was a great staircase with carved balustrades and dark slippery stairs, and the doors were all shut, and there was not a sound in the whole house, except the singing of some birds. Fluff began to feel giddy.

But it was babyish to feel frightened in her own grandpapa’s house, so she took courage, and passing the sleepy footman on tiptoe, crept softly up the stairs, holding very tightly to the balustrades, for she felt as though she were slipping every step, and presently she came to a sunny landing-place with a conservatory, where some canaries were singing. Here she saw a half-open door, and pushed it open, and then she thought she was in fairy-land.

It was such a large beautiful room, with marble ladies standing in the corners, with wonderful green plants growing in gilded baskets, and satin couches, and lace draperies, and lovely china; and in an arm-chair a gentleman asleep, for he had his eyes shut.

Fluff stole in and peeped at him; no, he was not asleep, for his eyes opened, and yet he did not seem to see her, perhaps he was thinking. His face looked very nice and kind, and with the unerring instinct of childhood she laid her hand on his knee.

“If you please, sir, will you tell me where I can find grandpapa?”

The gentleman raised his eyes—as Fluff told her mother afterward, “he looked at me without seeing me;” and then his hand closed quietly over the child’s. Nothing ever seemed to startle Raby Ferrers in that strange dreamy life of his.

“Who are you, my child, and who is your grandpapa?”

“My grandpapa’s name is Mr. Huntingdon, and he lives in this house—Belgrave House it is called, and I am Florence Trafford, but they call me Fluff at home.”

The name roused him effectually; ah, he was startled now. “Florence Trafford, did you say; do you mean that you live at Beulah Place in the Elysian Fields.”

“Yes, at Mrs. Watkins’s—mother, and Fern, and I, and Crystal too, only she went away this morning.”

“Away—what do you mean?” and Fluff’s poor little hands were held so tightly that they were quite red and sore afterward.

“Oh, she has gone to America with that horrid Miss Campion; yes, and she is horrid to take our dear Criss-crass away. Fern cried so this morning, and Crystal cried too, but she had to go, she said, so it was no use making a fuss about it; and she does not mean to come back for a long time. What is the matter?” peering curiously in his face, “does your head ache?”—for Raby had uttered a low groan, and had dropped Fluff’s hands, and he was pushing back the heavy dead-brown hair as though he were suddenly oppressed.

Fluff did not wait for his answer; she chattered on very much at her ease.

“Mother and Fern only think I am taking a walk, but I always meant to come and see grandpapa on my birthday. I should think he ought to be very glad to see me; and if he is not,” here her lip quivered a little, “I should tell him he is very naughty to live in this beautiful house while poor mother is so poor, and goes out teaching.” But, as she spoke, the door had opened softly, and a tall gray-haired man, with a thin erect figure, walked slowly into the room, leaning on Erle’s arm, while Percy followed him.

Fluff gave a little exclamation at the sight of the two young men, and then ran toward Mr. Huntingdon, her broad-brimmed hat falling on her neck, and her dark eyes all aglow with excitement.

“I have come to see you, grandpapa,” she said, holding out her hand with the air of a little princess; and then, as he did not take it, she continued rather piteously, “please, dear grandpapa, don’t be angry with me, for I have come all this way of my own accord, and I am so tired and hungry.”

If a thunder-bolt had fallen in the midst of that stately room it could not have created a greater sensation.Erle flushed and looked uncomfortable, a dark frown crossed her brother’s face; Mr. Huntingdon’s was inscrutable as usual, only a gray tint seemed to spread over his features, and there was a slight trembling in the hand that held Erle’s arm.

Fluff looked from one to the other, and then she touched Erle coaxingly.

“Do ask grandpapa to be kind to me, Mr. Erle,” she pleaded. “Percy is always cross, but you have been so good to me and Fern.” But a stern voice interrupted her.

“Do you know this child, Erle? she seems to recognize you.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered Erle, losing color now as fast as he had gained it; his embarrassment was not lessened by the look on Percy’s face. “I have seen her when I have been with Percy. She is Florence Trafford, Mrs. Trafford’s youngest child, and I expect what she says is quite true, and that she has come of her own accord, though I have no idea how she found her way here.”

“How should you, Mr. Erle,” returned Fluff, nestling up to her favorite, “when I never told you a word about it, or any of them either? Why, bless me, the stupidest of all those stupid owls in the ZoÖlogical Gardens, that we laughed at so much, knew more about it than you did. Oh, you need not frown, Percy, you do not come half so often to see poor mother as Mr. Erle does, and he is far kinder to Fern.”

“I think you had better hold you tongue, Fluff,” replied her brother; but he evidently enjoyed the sight of Erle’s discomfiture. “I don’t see why you are to be troubled with this sort of scene,” he continued, addressing Mr. Huntingdon, who was eying Fluff gloomily all this time. “If you wish it I will ring for Roger to take her home.”

“No, no, let her be for a moment,” he replied, quickly; and Fluff, who had looked terrified at Percy’s proposition, came closer and rubbed her curls delightedly against his coat-sleeve.

“That’s right, grandpapa. I have not spoken to you yet, have I? and I have so much to say. I was that little baby you know whom mother carried through the snow that night. Yes,” as Mr. Huntingdon shuddered, “I heard mother tell Fern all about it one night when they thought I was asleep—only I got sleepy and lost half; but I said to myself, ‘I shall go and tell grandpapa that poor mother is very miserable and unhappy, and that he must come and take care of her.’”

“There, there, you have said your lesson very prettily,” observed Mr. Huntingdon with a sneer. “Children are apt parrots;” but Erle saw that his sneer was forced, and that he sat down like an old man, and he said, earnestly:

“Oh, sir, do not think so badly of your daughter. She has not sent the child on this errand. I would stake my life on it.”

“And how long have you taken upon yourself to defend my daughter, Mrs. Trafford?” asked his uncle coldly. Erle almost repented of his generous impulse when he heard that hard relentless voice. They had not noticed their visitor, and Raby, at the other end of the great room, lost much of what was passing, he was so absorbed with his own bitter disappointment. As Erle was silent a moment, Mr. Huntingdon repeated his question.

“Since he knew I had a pretty sister,” replied Percy, carelessly.

Erle turned round and their eyes met, but Percy’s fell before that glance of utter contempt; Mr. Huntingdon intercepted the look between the young men.

“I was not speaking to you, Percy,” he observed, curtly; “I should have thought it was your place to take your mother’s part, but you chose to be silent. Well, it is no affair of mine. Erle, will you be good enough to answer me a question or two, and then I will trouble you to send the child home. How often have you visited at my daughter’s house?”

“I can hardly answer that question, sir; I have been several times.”

“Did Percy take you?”

“In the first instance, yes; but I have been there alone too,” for Erle’s truthful nature scorned subterfuge. The crisis he had dreaded had come on him at last; but Percy should not see that he was afraid. He might be weak and vacillating, but he was a gentleman, and a lie was abhorrent to him. Percy’s innuendo might work deadly mischief, but all the same he would not shelter himself behind a falsehood.

Mr. Huntingdon’s hard look involuntarily softened. This show of manliness on his nephew’s part pleased him.“Of course you went there, knowing that I should disapprove of such visits. Tell me, is this Fern of whom my grandson speaks so very attractive?”

“She is very pretty.”

“That is all I want to know. Now, will you order the carriage to take the child home? No, stop, I think Roger had better fetch a cab.” But at this point Fluff began to cry.

“Oh, I am so tired and hungry,” she sobbed, “and all those dreadful bones in my legs, and the crier not come yet. What is the good of a grandpapa if he has no cakes and things, and on my birthday too!”

Mr. Huntingdon smiled grimly.

“Very well, order the child some refreshment, Erle. After all, she is but a starved bit of a thing; see she has what children like best. Percy, come with me a moment, I want to speak to you.”

“Oh, thank you, grandpapa,” exclaimed Fluff, cheering up at this; and as the door closed on Mr. Huntingdon, Erle knelt down by the child, and wiped the tears from the tired dirty little face that had brought such trouble to him.

And the heart of Fluff was glad within her, for they brought her fruit and cakes and sweet wine on a gold salver, so that she feasted like a king’s daughter or like the Princess Dove herself; and Erle sat by and watched her all the time, though he looked rather grave and unhappy, Fluff thought.

Both of them were rather startled when Mr. Ferrers groped his way toward them. He had been hidden by the curtain, and Erle had not noticed him.

“Mr. Erle, if you will allow me, I should like to take the child home.”

“Of course,” rousing himself, and looking a little bewildered, “we were both to have gone this evening. I had ordered the brougham, but I am afraid now that I must ask you to excuse me. There are circumstances—and,” here Erle paused and bit his lips.

“There is no need for you to go,” returned Raby, sorrowfully; “the bird has flown. This child,” putting his hand lightly on Fluff’s curly head, “told me before you came in that Crystal had gone to America—she started this morning.”

“To America?” exclaimed Erle, in an incredulous voice.“Yes, but she has told me no particulars. It is hard, very hard, is it not. I find one does not get used to disappointment. It is a heavy blow to my faith. I thought that to-night we should certainly have met.”

“I am awfully sorry, Mr. Ferrers, I am indeed. I wish I could have come with you.”

“You could not help me. I will take the child home, and talk to those kind friends who have sheltered Crystal; at least I shall hear about her, and know her future movements.”

“I think I hear the cab, Mr. Ferrers, and Fluff is fast asleep.”

“We will not wake her, poor little thing,” returned Raby, lifting her up as he spoke. Fluff grunted contentedly as her head dropped on his broad shoulder. Erle watched them as Roger guided them to the cab. How he longed to accompany them. The next moment he turned with a start, as his uncle’s slow footstep paused beside him.

“Erle,” he said, “look at this,” and he held out a costly ring, a half hoop of diamonds. “I have heard all I wish from Percy. His sense of honor is none of the finest, but he is useful to me. You and I need not heat ourselves in a perfectly useless discussion. Miss Selby has a right to expect this ring. You are treating her very shabbily, Erle. Come to me to-morrow and tell me you have placed it on her finger.”

“And if I refuse?” Erle’s pale lips could hardly frame the question.

Mr. Huntingdon smiled ironically.

“I do not think you will refuse, Erle. You are too much a gentleman to treat a woman badly. All the world is saying you and Miss Selby are engaged. You can hardly allow a girl to be talked about.”

“But if I prefer another?” stammered Erle.

“Tut, tut, boy, you will soon get over your fancy,” returned Mr. Huntingdon, impatiently. “Most young men have half a dozen flirtations before they settle down. I suppose I need not tell you that I strictly prohibit any visits to Mrs. Trafford for the future. If you infringe this rule it will be at your own risk;” and then he continued more earnestly—“Erle, I am determined that you shall not disappoint me. You are my adopted son, and I trust my future heir. I have a right to count on your obedience. Come to me to-morrow, and tell me you and Miss Selby are engaged, and all will be well between us.” Then, pressing his shoulder gently, and in a voice no one had heard from him since his daughter’s loss—“I am an old man, and my life has not been a happy one. Do not let me feel that you have disappointed me too.”