Two days later, Lady Vera, amusing herself under the broad oaks of the park with Lady Clive's children, is secretly drawn aside by Hal, the eldest, with a look of importance on his handsome face.

"Come with me, Vera, away from the nurse and children," he says, with a confidential air. "I have something for you."

Always indulgent to children, Lady Vera follows the clasp of the small hand, and is led away to a small summer-house out of range of the keen eyes of Mark and Dot.

"Now you may sit down, Vera," announces eight-year-old Hal, with owlish gravity. "I have something to tell you before I give you what I said I had for you."

Countess Vera sits down obediently. It is a bird's nest, or a blue-bird's egg, or some such treasure of the summer wood, she thinks to herself, with a smile, as the little brown hand goes into his jacket pocket.

"This morning, Vera, I went for a walk with Mark and Dot, and the nurse," he begins. "We went down into the wood a little way, it was so cool and green, and the birds sang so sweetly."

"It is surely a bird's egg," Vera says to herself now, keenly approving her own penetration.

But between the boyish fingers now appears the small corner of a yellow envelope, which somewhat quickens her curiosity.

"I went off to some distance by myself, and climbed a tree to look into a bird's nest. Bessie scolded, but I am too old to be bossed by a nurse, papa says, and so I gave her to understand. Don't you think I am getting too tall to mind what Bessie says, Lady Vera?" throwing back his curly head with dignity.

"Much too tall," Lady Vera admits with demure earnestness. "I should say that you would reach quite to her shoulder."

"Oh, quite," says Hal, in an aggrieved tone. "So, as I was telling you, Vera, I told Bess to mind her own business. Then I climbed into a great tree to look into a bird's nest."

"I hope you did not rob the nest and bring me the spoils, Hal," she begins, reproachfully.

"No, indeed," laughed the lad. "You would not have admired them very much if I had. The nest was pretty, but the five little naked birds in it were quite disgusting, I can tell you. Not a feather had grown on them yet, and their gaping mouths seemed as if they would swallow one. I came down pretty quick, and almost landed on the head of an old woman."

"An old woman," Vera repeats, in surprise.

"Yes, a wrinkled, stooping old hag, gathering sticks in the wood. I gave her a pretty start, I can tell you," cries the boy, laughing at the remembrance.

"Ah, then, it is a souvenir of the old witch you have brought me," says the countess, smiling.

"You have guessed it, Vera. You must be a witch yourself," cries Hal, in high glee with himself and her. "Here it is, a letter with an elegant yellow cover—a begging letter, of course," he adds, with a ludicrous assumption of wisdom.

A start of repulsion goes over Vera as she takes the coarse envelope in her hand.

She holds it unopened in her hand a moment, wondering at her own nervousness.

"Are you afraid to open it, Vera?" laughs the boy. "Let me do it for you, then. The old hag was very mysterious over it, I can tell you. She bade me tell no one of the letter, not even papa and mamma. You see how clever I was, getting you away from Bessie and the children."

Lady Vera has torn the coarse envelope open by this time. A half sheet of paper falls out into her hand. On it is clearly and plainly written these lines:

"If Lady Fairvale would gain possession of the lost memorandum-book, let her come down beyond the lodge-gates, half a mile along the road at dusk this evening. Let her come alone and unwatched, or she will accomplish nothing. One will be in waiting who will restore the memorandum-book, and claim the reward."

Thus it ends. Hal looks curiously at her pale, grave face.

"It was a begging letter, wasn't it?" he inquires.

"She certainly wants something of me. I am not sure if she will get it or not. Hal, promise me not to speak of this to-day to anyone—will you, dear?"

"Mum's the word. I can keep a secret, you bet," answers the eldest-born of the Clives, with dreadful slang, acquired, no doubt, in the stables which he visits daily with his father.

"Thank you, dear, that's a good boy. Now let us go back to Mark and Dot," says Lady Vera, putting her yellow-covered letter in her pocket.