ROSEMARY sat in silence for a few moments, taking in the full meaning of her companion's answer to her last question. He had forgotten that Angel was Angel! Though she was warmly wrapped in a soft rug of silvery fur, a chill crept into her heart. Could it be that Nurse's words about father had been true, after all; and if they were, was she doing harm, rather than good, in bringing him home?

Presently Hugh waked out of his own thoughts, and noticed the little girl's silence.

"You're not afraid?" he asked, blissfully unconscious of offence. "I'm not driving too fast to please you?"

"Oh no," said Rosemary.

"You're not cold?"

"No, thank you."

"Nor tired?"

"No, not tired."

"But something is the matter?"

"I'm worrying," confessed the child.

"What about, little one?"

"I'm not sure if I ought to have spoken to you, or have come with you, after all."

To save his life, Hugh could not have helped laughing, though it was evidently a matter of serious importance. "What, do you think we ought to have a chaperon?" he asked. "Paul's in the tonneau, you know; and he's a most discreet chap."

"I don't know what a chaperon is," said Rosemary. "But will you promise not to be angry if I ask you something, and will you promise to answer, honour bright?"

"Yes, to both your questions."

"Were you really unkind to Angel, before you were lost?"

This was a hard nut to crack, if his past were not to be ruthlessly severed from Angel's by a word. He thought for a moment, and then said, "Honour bright, I can't remember anything unkind I ever did to her."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I was afraid, when you said you'd forgotten—but maybe her name wasn't Angel, then?"

"That was it, I'm sure," replied Hugh, soothingly. "Maybe you named her Angel, yourself?"

"I don't know," said Rosemary. "She seems to have been it, always, ever since I can remember. And she does look just like one, you know, she's so beautiful."

"I expect you remember a lot more about angels than I do, because it isn't so long since you came from where they live. But here we are in the woods at Cap Martin. Have you ever been here before?"

"Angel and I had a picnic here once, all by ourselves; and there were lots of sheep under the olive trees, and a funny old shepherd who made music to them. Oh, I do love picnics, don't you? Angel said, if she were rich, she'd take me on the loveliest kind of a picnic for Christmas; but, you see, it would cost too much money to do it, for we've hardly got any, especially since the Comtesse doesn't pay us back."

"What kind of picnic would it have been?" asked Hugh, driving along the beautiful shore road, where the wind-blown pines lean forward like transformed wood nymphs, caught in a spell just as they spread out their arms to spring into the sea.

"Angel has told me lots of history-stories about the strange rock-villages in the mountains. There's one called Éze, on top of a hill shaped almost like a horn; she showed me a picture of it. Children live up in the rock villages, and never come down to the towns. They've never even seen any toys, like other children play with, Angel says. All the strangers who come here give presents to the poor in Monte Carlo and Mentone, and big places like that; but they never think of the ones up in the mountains. Angel said how nice it would be, if we were rich, to buy toys,—baskets and baskets full,—and give them away to the children of Éze. Perhaps you are rich; are you?"

"Richer than I thought, a few years ago, that I ever should be. I used to be poor, until I dug, and found some gold lying about in the ground."

"How splendid! I suppose the fairies showed you where to look. Jane says there are no fairies, but I do hope she's mistaken. I wish you would send up some presents to the little children at Éze."

"I will, lots, if you'll take them."

"Perhaps we could all go together."

"I'm afraid your mother wouldn't care for that."

"Yes, she would. Because, if you were never unkind to her, like Nurse said you were, she'll be most awfully glad to see you again. I shouldn't wonder if she'd cry for joy, to have you with us always, and take care of us. Oh, do let's go back now, and I'll take you to her. She will be surprised!"

"I should think she would," said Hugh. "But look here; you said she wouldn't get back till dark. We've come to Mentone now. See how pretty the shops are for Christmas. Can't you stop and have some nice hot chocolate and cakes with me, and afterwards choose a doll for yourself, as a Christmas present from your old friend?"

As he put this temptation before her, he slowed down the car in front of a shop with big glass windows full of sparkling cakes, and ribbon-tied baskets of crystallized fruits. Through the windows Rosemary could see a great many well-dressed people sitting at little marble tables, and it would have been delightful to go in. But she shook her head. The sun was setting over the sea. The sky was flooded with pink and gold, while all the air was rosy with a wonderful glow which painted the mountains, even the dappled-grey plane trees, and the fronts of the gaily decorated shops.

The donkey women were leading their patient little animals away from the stand on the sea promenade, up to Sorbio for the night; and their dark faces under the queer, mushroom hats were ruddy and beautiful in the rose-light.

"As soon as the sun goes down, it gets dark here," said Rosemary, regretfully. "Thank you very much, but I'd rather go home now. You see, I do so want you to be there already, waiting to surprise Angel when she comes in."

"No time even to buy a doll?"

"I'd rather go home, thank you. Besides, though I should like to have a new doll, perhaps darling Evie would be sad if I played with another."

Hugh was obediently turning the car's bonnet towards Monte Carlo, and for the fraction of a second he was foolish enough almost to lose control of it, on account of a start he gave. "Evie!" he echoed.

It was years since he had spoken that name.

"She's my doll," explained Rosemary.

"Oh!" said Hugh.

"But I don't think she'd mind or be sad if you gave me a doll's house," went on the child, "if you should have time to get it for me by and bye; that is, if you really want to give me something for Christmas, you know."

"Of course I do. But tell me, why did you name your doll Evie?"

He put the question in a low voice, as if he were half ashamed of asking it; and as at that instant a tram boomed by, Rosemary heard only the first words.

"I 'sposed you would," she replied. "Fathers do like to give their little girls Christmas presents, Jane says; maybe that's why they're obliged to come back always on Christmas Eve, if they've been lost. Do you know, even if there aren't any fairies, it's just like a fairy story having my father come back, and take me to Angel in a motor car on Christmas Eve."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Hugh Egerton. "Did you say—father?"

"Yes," replied Rosemary. "You're almost like a fairy father, I said."

So, he was her father—her long lost father! Poor little lamb, he began to guess at the story now. There was a scamp of a father who had "not been very kind" to Angel, and had been lost, or had thoughtfully lost himself. For some extraordinary reason the child imagined that he—well, if it were not pathetic, it would be funny. But somehow he did not feel much inclined to laugh. Poor little thing! His heart yearned over her; but the situation was becoming strained. Unless he could think of some good way out of it, he might have a scene when he was obliged to rob the child of her father, on reaching the door of her house.

"That's it," said he, calling all his tact to the rescue. "I am a fairy father. Just as you thought, it's a mistake of Jane's about there being no fairies; only the trouble is, fairies aren't so powerful as they used to be in the old days. Now, I should love to be able to stay with you for a long, long time, but because I'm only a poor fairy father, I can't. We've been very happy together, and I'm tremendously glad you found me. I shall think of you and of this day, often. But the cruel part is, that when I bring you to your door, I'm afraid I shall have to—vanish."

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Rosemary, her voice quivering. "Must I lose you again?"

"Perhaps I can write to you," Hugh tried to console her, feeling horribly guilty and helpless.

"That won't be the same. I do love you so much. Please don't vanish."

"I shall send you things. A doll's house for Evie. By the way, you didn't tell me why you named her that."

"After Angel, of course," returned the child absent-mindedly. "But when you've vanished, I—"

"Is your mother's name Evie?"

"Evelyn. But that's too long for a doll."

"Evelyn—what? You—you haven't told me your name yet."

"Rosemary Evelyn Clifford."

"Great Heavens!"

"How strange your voice sounds," said Rosemary. "Are you ill?"

"No—no! I—feel a little odd, that's all."

"Oh, it isn't the vanishing coming on already? We're a long way from our hotel yet."

Hugh drove mechanically, though sky and sea and mountains seemed to be seething together, as if in the convulsions of an earthquake.

Her child! And her husband—what of him? The little one said he was lost; that he had not been kind. Hugh gritted his teeth together, and heard only the singing of his blood in his ears. Was the man dead, or had he but disappeared? In any case, she was here, alone in Monte Carlo, with her child; poor, unhappy, working by day, crying by night. He must see her, at once—at once.

Yet—what if it were not she, after all? If the name were a coincidence? There might be other Evelyn Cliffords in the world. It must be that this was another. His Evelyn had married a rich and titled Englishman. She was Lady Clifford. The things that had happened to Rosemary's Angel could not have happened to her. Still, he must know, and know quickly.

"Where do you live, little Rosemary?" he asked, grimly schooling his voice, when he felt that he could trust himself to speak.

"The Hotel Pension Beau Soleil, Rue Girasole, in the Condamine, Monte Carlo," answered the child, as if she were repeating a lesson she had been taught to rattle off by heart.

Lost as he was to most external things, Hugh roused himself to some surprise at the name of the hotel.

"Why, that is where Mademoiselle de Lavalette and her mother live!" he exclaimed.

"They're the ladies Angel lent the money to, because she was so sorry for them," said Rosemary. "I've heard them talking about it with her, and saying they can't pay it back. They're angry with her for asking, but she had to, you see. When they go past us in the dining-room they turn their backs."

Hugh's attention was arrested now.

"Do they dine?" he asked. "Every night?"

"Oh yes, always. Mademoiselle has lovely dresses. She is pretty, but the Comtesse is such an ugly old lady; like Red Riding Hood's grandmother, I think. I'm afraid of her. Jane says her Madame and Monsieur don't believe she's really a Comtesse. I had to knock at her door with a letter from Angel to-day, for Angel doesn't know I'm afraid. I couldn't help being glad Madame wouldn't let me in, for it seemed as if she might eat me up. I knocked and knocked, and when I was going away, I saw Mademoiselle coming in, in a pink dress with a rosy hat."

"I think she'll pay your mother back to-morrow," said Hugh, remembering the fatness of the pink bag.

"She didn't say she would. She was so cross with me that she called me a petit bÊte, and snatched the letter out of my hand."

At this, Hugh's face grew suddenly hot and red, and he muttered something under his breath. But it was not a word which Rosemary would have understood, even if she had heard.