But as soon as the dance was over, the little ones again gathered round Lily.  Evidently she was the prime favorite of them all; and as her companions had now become tired of dancing, new sports were proposed, and Lily was carried off to “Prisoner’s Base.”

“I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Chillingly,” said a frank, pleasant voice; and a well-dressed, good-looking man held out his hand to Kenelm.

“My husband,” said Mrs. Braefield with a certain pride in her look.

Kenelm responded cordially to the civilities of the master of the house, who had just returned from his city office, and left all its cares behind him.  You had only to look at him to see that he was prosperous and deserved to be so.  There were in his countenance the signs of strong sense, of good-humor—­above all, of an active, energetic temperament.  A man of broad smooth forehead, keen hazel eyes, firm lips and jaw; with a happy contentment in himself, his house, the world in general, mantling over his genial smile, and outspoken in the metallic ring of his voice.

“You will stay and dine with us, of course,” said Mr. Braefield; “and unless you want very much to be in town to-night, I hope you will take a bed here.”

Kenelm hesitated.

“Do stay at least till to-morrow,” said Mrs. Braefield.  Kenelm hesitated still; and while hesitating, his eyes rested on Lily, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged lady, and approaching the hostess—­evidently to take leave.

“I cannot resist so tempting an invitation,” said Kenelm, and he fell back a little behind Lily and her companion.

“Thank you much for so pleasant a day,” said Mrs. Cameron to the hostess.  “Lily has enjoyed herself extremely.  I only regret we could not come earlier.”

“If you are walking home,” said Mr. Braefield, “let me accompany you.  I want to speak to your gardener about his heart’s-ease—­it is much finer than mine.”

“If so,” said Kenelm to Lily, “may I come too?  Of all flowers that grow, heart’s-ease is the one I most prize.”

A few minutes afterward Kenelm was walking by the side of Lily along the banks of a little stream tributary to the Thames; Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Braefield in advance, for the path only held two abreast.

Suddenly Lily left his side, allured by a rare butterfly—­I think it is called the Emperor of Morocco—­that was sunning its yellow wings upon a group of wild reeds.  She succeeded in capturing this wanderer in her straw hat, over which she drew her sun-veil.  After this notable capture she returned demurely to Kenelm’s side.

“Do you collect insects?” said that philosopher, as much surprised as it was his nature to be at anything.

“Only butterflies,” answered Lily; “they are not insects, you know; they are souls.”

“Emblems of souls, you mean—­at least so the Greeks prettily represented them to be.”

“No, real souls—­the souls of infants that die in their cradles unbaptized; and if they are taken care of, and not eaten by birds, and live a year, then they pass into fairies.”