It was as the Vyners sat at breakfast the following morning, that the servant announced the arrival of an old countryman and a little girl, who had just come by the stage.

“Oh! may I go, papa, may I go and see her?” cried Ada, eagerly; but Sir Gervais had stooped across to whisper something to his wife, and the governess, deeming the moment favourable to exert her authority, moved away at once with her charge.

“The peasant child that we told you of, Sir Within,” said Lady Vyner, “has arrived, and it is a rare piece of fortune you are here, for we shall steal a travelling opinion out of you.”

“In what way may I hope to be of use?”

“In telling us what you think of her. I mean, of her temper, character, disposition; in short, how you, with that great tact you possess in reading people, interpret her.”

“You flatter me much, Lady Vyner; but any skill I may possess in these respects is rather applicable to people in our own rank of life, where conventionalities have a great share; now in hiding, now in disclosing traits of character. As to the simple child of nature, I suspect I shall find myself all at fault.”

“But you are a phrenologist, too?” said Sir Gervais.

“A believer, certainly, but no accomplished professor of the science.”

“I declare it is very nervous work to be in company with a magician, who reads one like an open volume,” said Georgina. “What do you say, Mr. M’Kinlay, if we take a walk in the garden, while these learned chemists perform their analyses?”

Mr. M’Kinlay’s eyes sparkled with delight, though he had to stammer out his excuses: He was going to start off for town; he must meet the “up mail” somewhere, and his conveyance was already waiting at the gate.

“Then I’ll stroll down the avenue with you,” said she, rising. “I’ll go for my bonnet.”

“Let me have the draft as early as you can, M’Kinlay,” whispered Sir Gervais, as he drew the lawyer into a window-recess. “I don’t think Luttrell will like acting with Grenfell, and I would ask my friend, Sir Within here, to be the other trustee.”

“No; he certainly did not seem to like Grenfell, though he owned he did not know him.”

“Then, as to his own boy, I’ll write to him myself; it will be more friendly. Of course, all these matters are between ourselves.”

“Of course.”

“I mean strictly so; because Lady Vyner’s family and the Luttrells have had some differences, years and years ago. Too long a story to tell you now, and scarcely worth telling at any time; however, it was one of those unfinished games—you understand—where each party accuses the other of unfair play, and there are no quarrels less reparable. I say this much simply to show you the need of all your caution, and how the name ‘Luttrell,’ must never escape you.”

Mr. M’Kinlay would like, to have declared at once that the imprudence had been committed, and that the warning had come too late; but it required more time than he then had at his disposal to show by what a mere slip it had occurred, and at the same time how innocuously the tidings had fallen. Lastly, there was his pride as a business man in the way—the same sort of infallibility which makes Popes and Bank cashiers a little less and more than all humanity—so he simply bowed and smiled, and muttered a something that implied a perfect acquiescence. And now he took his leave, Lady Vyner graciously hoping soon to see him again; and Sir Within, with a courtesy that had often delighted Arch-Duchesses, declaring the infinite pleasure it would afford him to see him at Dalradern, with which successes triumphant, he shook Vyner’s hand, and hastened out to meet Miss Courtenay.

It is a very strange thing to mark how certain men, trained and inured to emergencies of no mean order—the lawyer and the doctor, for instance—who can await with unshaken courage the moment in which duty will summon them to efforts on whose issue another’s life is hanging,—I say, it is a strange thing to mark how such men are unnerved and flurried by that small by-play of society which fine ladies go through without a sensation or an emotion. The little commonplace, attentions, the weak flatteries, the small coquetteries that are the every-day incidents of such a sphere, strike them as all full of a direct application, a peculiar significance, when addressed to themselves; and thus was it Mr. M’Kinlay issued forth, imbued with a strong conviction that he had just taken leave of a charming family, endowed with many graceful gifts, amongst which conspicuously shone the discernment they showed in understanding himself.

“I see it,” muttered he below his breath—“I see it before me. There will come a day when I shall cross this threshold on still safer grounds. When Sir Gervais will be Vyner, and even——”

“I trust I have not kept you waiting?” said the very sweetest of voices, as Miss Courtenay, drawing her shawl around her, came forward. “I sincerely hope I have not perilled your journey; but I went to fetch you a rose. Here it is. Is it not pretty? They are the true Japanese roses, but they have no odour.”

Mr. M’Kinlay was in ecstasy; he declared that the flower was perfection; there never was such grace of outline, such delicacy of colouring, such elegance of form; and he protested that there was a faint, a very faint, but delicious perfume also.

Georgina laughed, one of those sweet-ringing little laughs beauties practise—just as great pianists do those seemingly hap-hazard chords they throw off, as in careless mood they find themselves before a piano—and they now walked along, side by side, towards the gate.

“You don’t know in what a position of difficulty my indiscretion of yesterday evening has placed me, Miss Courtenay,” said he. “Here has been Sir Gervais enjoining me to the strictest secresy.”

“You may trust me to the fullest extent; and tell me, what was your business with Lutrell?”

“You shall know all. Indeed, I have no desire to keep secrets from you.” It was somewhat of a hazardous speech, particularly in the way it was uttered; but she received it with a very sweet smile, and he went on: “My journey had for its object to see this Mr. Luttrell, and induce him to accept a trusteeship to a deed.”

“For this child?”

“Yes; the same.”

“But she is his daughter, is she not?”

“No; he had but one child, the boy I spoke of.”

“Who told you so? Luttrell himself, perhaps, or some of his people. At all events, do you believe it?”

He was a good deal startled by the sharp, quick, peremptory tone she now spoke in, so like her wonted manner, but so widely unlike her late mood of captivating softness, and for a second or two he did not answer.

“Tell me frankly, do you believe it?” cried she.

“I see no reason to disbelieve it,” was his reply.

“Is the boy older than this girl?” asked she, quickly.

“I should say so. Yes, certainly. I think so, at least.”

“And I am almost as certain he is not,” said she, in the same determined tone. “Now for another point. My brother Vyner is about to make a settlement on this girl; is it not so?”

“Yes; I have instructions to prepare a deed.”

“And do you believe—is it a thing that your experience warrants you to believe—that he contemplates this for the child of Heaven knows whom, found Heaven knows where? Tell me that!”

“It is strange, no doubt, and it surprised me greatly, and at first I couldn’t credit it.”

“Nor you don’t now! No, no, Mr. M’Kinlay, ‘don’t be a churl of your confidence. This girl is a Luttrell; confess it?”

“On my honour, I believe she is not.”

“Then I take it they are cleverer folk than I thought them, for they seem to have deceived you.”

“We shall not do it, Sir, in the time,” cried the postilion from his saddle, “unless we start at once.”

“Yes, yes, I am coming. If you would write to me, Miss Courtenay, any of your doubts—if you would allow me to write to you.”

“What for, Sir? I have no doubts. I don’t certainly see how all this came about; nor—not having Mr. Grenfell’s acquaintance, who was with my brother—am I likely to find out; but I know quite as much as I care to know.”

“You suspect—I see what you suspect,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, hoping by one clever dash to achieve the full measure of her confidence.

“What is it I suspect?” asked she, with an air of innocent curiosity.

“You suspect,” said he, slowly, while he looked intently into her eyes at the time—“you suspect that Sir Gervais means by adopting this child to make some sort of a reparation to Luttrell.”

“A what, Sir?” said she, opening her eyes to almost twice the usual size, while her nostrils dilated with passion. “What did you dare to mean by that word?”

“My dear Miss Courtenay, I am miserable, the most wretched of men, if I have offended you.”

“There’s eleven now striking, Sir, and we may as well send the horses back,” cried the postilion, sulkily.

“There, Sir, you hear what he says; pray don’t be late on my account. Good-by. I hope you’ll have no more disasters. Good-by.”

For a moment he thought to hasten after her, and try to make his peace; but great interests called him back to town, and, besides, he might in his confusion only make bad worse. It was a matter of much thought, and so, with a deep sigh, he stepped into the chaise and drove away, with a far heavier heart than he had carried from the porch of the cottage.

“I must have called a wrong witness,” muttered he, “there’s no doubt of it; she belonged to ‘the other side.’”