Stephen rose softly and watched him from behind the window curtains until Gideon had vanished amongst the trees; then Stephen went out and smiled down upon his mother with the air of a man who had just succeeded in accomplishing some great work for the good of mankind at large.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, mother,” he said. “I have been making some arrangements with the worthy man, her father.”

Mrs. Davenant looked up with the nervous, deprecatory expression which always came upon her face when she was in the presence of her son.

“It does not matter, Stephen; I am glad to rest. Where has the man gone? He—he—doesn’t he look rather superior for his station, and why does he look so stern and forbidding?”

“A life spent in solitude, away from the world, has made him reserved and cold,” replied Stephen, glibly, “and, of course, he feels the parting from his daughter.”

“Poor man—poor girl!” murmured Mrs. Davenant.

Stephen looked down at her with a contemplative smile, while his ears were strained for the returning footsteps of Gideon Rolfe.

“Yours is a sweetly sympathetic nature, my dear. I can already foresee that the ‘poor girl’ will not long need anyone’s sympathy. You are already prepared to open your arms and take her to your heart. Is it not so?”

Mrs. Davenant looked up—just as if she wanted to see what he expected of her to say, and seeing that he meant her to say “yes,” said it.

“Yes, I shall be very glad to have a young girl—a good young girl—as a companion, Stephen. My life has been very lonely since you have been away.”

“And I may be away so much. But, mother, you will not forget what I said during our drive? There are special reasons why the girl’s antecedents should not be spoken of. The friend who interested me in her wishes her to forget, if possible, everything concerning her early life.”

“I understand, Stephen.”

“And, by the way, do not allow any expression of astonishment to escape you if, when you see her, you feel astonished at her appearance or manner. Remember that she has spent all her life here, buried in the forest, her sole companions a woodsman and his wife.”

“Her mother and father?” said Mrs. Davenant.

“I said her mother and father, did I not? Just so—her mother and father. Well, we must not expect too much. And after all, it will be far more interesting for you to have a fresh and unsophisticated nature about you, although she may be rather rough and rustic——”

“I shall be quite content if she is a good girl.”

“Just so. Virtue is a precious gem though incased in a rough casket.”

Gideon Rolfe had returned, but not alone. Emerging from the deep shadow of the trees was what looked to their astonished and unprepared eyes a vision of some wood nymph.

Gideon Rolfe strode forward, his face set hard and sternly cold, and as he reached the cottage he took Una’s hand in his, and looking steadily into Stephen’s eyes, said:

“Mr. Davenant, I have informed my daughter of your mother’s offer to take her under her charge, but I have asked her to postpone her answer until she saw you.”

Stephen bowed, and laid his white hand on his mother’s arm.

“Miss Rolfe,” he said, in a low voice in which paternal kindness and social respect were delicately blended, “this lady is my mother. Like most mothers whose children have flown from the nest, she lives alone and feels her solitude. She is desirous of finding some young lady who will consent to share it with her. It is not only a home she offers you, but—I think I may add, mother—a heart.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Davenant, and as she held out her hand her voice trembled and a tear shone in her eye.

Una, who had been looking from one to the other, with the breath coming in little pants through her half parted lips, drew near and put her hand in the outstretched one, but the next moment turned and clung to Gideon’s arm with a sudden sob.

“Oh, father, I cannot leave you!” she murmured.

Gideon bent his head, perhaps to hide his face, which was working with emotion.

“Hush! it is for the best. Remember what I have said. You wanted to see the world——”

“Yes—with you,” said Una, audibly.

“The world and I have parted forever, Una.”

“But shall I never see you again?”

“Yes, yes, we shall meet now and again.”

“I trust, Miss Rolfe, that we shall wean your father from his long seclusion. You must be the magnet to draw him from his retreat into the busy haunts of men.”

“You will come and see me?” she murmured.

“Yes, Una. Go where you will,” and he glanced over her head at Stephen, “you may feel that I am watching over you, as I have always watched and guarded you. If any harm comes to you——”

“Harm?” she breathed, and looked up into his face with questioning gaze.

“Come, Mr. Rolfe, you mustn’t alarm your daughter,” said Stephen, softly. “She will think that the world is filled with lions and wolves seeking whom they may devour. I think you may feel safe from any harm under my mother’s protection, Miss Rolfe.”

“Yes. I have never had a daughter. If you come you shall be one to me.”

“You think me ungrateful?” said Una to her, in her simple, frank way.

“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Davenant. “I think you only show a naturally affectionate heart. You have never been from home before.”

“Never,” said Una. “Never out of the woods.”

“My poor child. No, I do not think you ungrateful. I like to see that you feel leaving home so much. For you will come, will you not? I shall be disappointed and grieved if you do not, now that I have seen you.”

“Now that you have seen me,” said Una.

“Yes, my dear. For I am sure that I shall love you, and I hope that you will grow fond of me.”

“Do you?” said Una, musingly. “Yes,” she said, after a pause, “I shall love you.”

“Will you kiss me, my dear,” she said; and Una bent and kissed her.

“And now that you think—that you are sure you will like me—you will come,” said Mrs. Davenant.

Una looked before her thoughtfully, almost dreamily, for a moment, then replied:

“Yes, my father wishes me to go. Why does he wish me to go into the world he hates and fears so much? It was only the other day that he warned me against wishing for it, and told me that I should never be happy if I left Warden. Why has he changed so suddenly?”

“I—I think it must have been Stephen who persuaded him. I heard them talking together.”

“Stephen—that is your son,” said Una.

“Yes, he is my son; he is very good and clever—so very clever! He has been a most affectionate son to me, and has never caused me a day’s uneasiness.”

“All sons are not so?” she asked.

“No, indeed,” responded Mrs. Davenant.

“Is he ill?” asked Una, after a pause.

“Ill!”

“Because he is so pale,” she said.

“Yes, Stephen is pale. It is because he thinks and reads so much, and then he is in great trouble now; his uncle died three days ago.”

“Is that why he is dressed in black—and you, too? I am very sorry.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Davenant, “that was very nice of you to say that. I can see you have a kind heart. Yes, his uncle is just dead, Mr. Ralph Davenant—Squire Davenant. Why did you start?”—for Una had started and turned to her with a sudden flash of intense interest in her eyes—“did you know him? Ah, no, you could not, if you have not been out of the forest—how strange it seems!—- but you have heard of him, perhaps?”

“Yes, I have heard of him.”

At that moment the door opened, and Stephen and Gideon Rolfe came out.

The usual smile sat upon Stephen’s face, in strange contrast to the stern, set look on his companion’s.

Raising his hat to Mrs. Davenant as he approached, Gideon put his hand on Una’s shoulder.

“Go indoors, Una, to your mother,” he said quietly.

Una rose, and after a momentary glance at each of their faces, went inside. Stephen opened and held the door for her, then closed it and came back to the others.

“Mother,” he said, “Mr. Rolfe and I have made our arrangements, and he agrees with me that it would be wiser, now that the news is broken to Miss Rolfe, for her to accompany you back to town this afternoon.”

Mrs. Davenant nodded, and glanced timidly at Gideon’s stern face.

“We have won Mrs. Rolfe over to our side, and she is already making the few preparations necessary for Miss Rolfe’s journey.”

Gideon Rolfe inclined his head as if to corroborate this, then he said:

“Will you come inside, madam, and partake of some refreshment?”

“I would rather wait here. Mr. Rolfe, I hope you feel that, in trusting your daughter to my charge, that she will at least have a happy home, if I can make one for her?”

“That I believe, madam.”

“Yes, I have quite convinced Mr. Rolfe that the change will be beneficial to Miss Rolfe, and that she will be taken every care of. I suppose you are quite old friends already, eh, mother?”

“I think she is a beautiful girl whom one could not help loving,” murmured Mrs. Davenant.

Half an hour passed, and then Una and Martha came out. Una was pale to the lips, the other was red-eyed with weeping, and her tears broke out afresh when Mrs. Davenant shook hands with her and assured her that her daughter should be happy.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Martha. “It’s what I said would come to pass. Gideon couldn’t expect to keep her shut up here, like a bird in a cage, forever and a day. It was against reason, but it is so sudden,” and her sobs broke into her speech and stopped her.

Mrs. Davenant’s eyes were wet, and she glanced at Stephen, half inclined to postpone the journey; but Gideon Rolfe had called the carriage to the door, and the box was already on the seat.

With the same set calm which he had maintained throughout, Gideon took Una in his arms, held her for a moment and whispering, “Remember, wherever you are I am watching over you!” put her in the carriage in which Stephen had already placed his mother.

He, too, had a word to whisper. It was also a reminder.

“Remember, mother, not another word of the past. Her life begins from today.”

Then he looked at his watch, and said aloud:

“You will just have time to catch the train. Good-bye.”

With the most dutiful affection, he kissed his mother, then went round, and, bare-headed, offered his hand to Una.

“Good-bye, Miss Rolfe,” he said. “You are now starting on a new life. No one, not even your father, can more devoutly wish you the truest and fullest happiness than I do.”

Una, half-blinded with her tears, put her hand in his; but almost instantly drew it away, with something like a shudder. It was cold as ice.

The next moment the carriage started, and the two men were left alone.

For fully a minute they stood looking at it, till it had been swallowed up by the shadows of the trees; then Gideon turned, his face white and working.

“Stephen Davenant,” he said, in slow, measured tones, “one word with you before we part. You have gained your end—be what it may; I say for your sake, let it be for good; for if it be for evil, you have one to deal with who will not hold his hand to punish and avenge. Rather than let her know the heritage of shame which hangs over her, I have let her go. If you value your safety, guard her, for at your hands I require her happiness and well being.”

Stephen’s face paled, but the smile struggled to its accustomed place.

“My dear Mr. Rolfe,” he began, but Gideon stopped him with a gesture.

“Enough. I set no value on your word. There is no need for further speech between us. From this hour our roads lie apart. Take yours, and leave me mine.”

“This is very sad. Well, well; as you say, I have gained my end, but, as I would rather put it, I have done my duty, and I must bear your ungrounded suspicions patiently. Good-bye, my dear sir—good-bye.”

“I have sworn never to touch the hand of a Davenant in friendship,” he said, grimly. “There lies your path”—and he pointed to the Wermesley road—“mine is here, for the present.”

And with a curt nod, he turned toward the cottage.

With a gentle sigh and shake of the head, Stephen, after lingering for a moment, as if he hoped that Gideon’s heart might be softened, turned and entered the wood.

Once in the shadow and out of sight, the smile disappeared, and left his face careworn, restless and anxious.

“Fate favors me,” he muttered. “That boor knows—guesses—nothing of the truth. I never thought to get the girl out of his clutches so easily! Now she is under my watch and ken—I hold her in my hand. But—but”—he mused, his lips twitching, his eyes moving restlessly to and fro—“what shall I do with her? Beautiful—she is lovely! How long will she escape notice in London? Someone will see her—some hot-headed fool—and fall in love. She might marry. Ah!”

And he stooped amongst the brakes and ferns, and looked up, with a sudden, dull-red flush on his pale cheek, a bright glitter in his light eyes, while a thought ran like lightning through his cunning brain.

“Marry her! Why—why should not I?”

An answer came quickly enough in the remembrance of the pale dark face of Laura Treherne, the girl to whom he was pledged.

But with a gesture of impatience he swept the obtrusive remembrance aside.

“Why not?” he muttered. “Then, at one stroke, I should secure myself. By Heaven—I will! I will!”

So elated was he by the thought that he stopped and leaned against a tree and took off his hat, allowing the cool breezes to play upon his white forehead.

“Beautiful, and the real heiress of Hurst Leigh,” he muttered. “Why should I not? By one stroke I should make myself secure, and set that cursed will at defiance, let it be where it may! I will! I will!” he repeated, setting his teeth; then, as he put on his hat, he smiled pitifully and murmured:

“Poor Laura, poor Laura!”