“I can never thank you sufficiently, Sir Everard.  Ah, if you knew how I abhorred myself in that hateful disguise!  Nothing earthly will ever induce me to put it on again.”

“I trust not,” he said, gravely; “let us hope it may never be necessary.  You are safe here, Miss Silver, from the tyranny of your uncle and cousin.  The friendless and unprotected shall never be turned from Kingsland Court.”

She took his hand and lifted it to her lips, and once more the luminous eyes were swimming in tears.

“I would thank you if I could, Sir Everard,” the sweet voice murmured:  “but you overpower me!  Your goodness is beyond thanks.”

A footstep on the marble stair made itself unpleasantly audible at this interesting crisis.  Miss Silver dropped the baronet’s hand with a wild instinct of flight in her great black eyes.

“Return to your room,” Sir Everard whispered.  “Lock the door, and remain there until I apprise my mother of your presence here and prepare her to receive you.  Quick!  I don’t want these prying prigs of servants to find you here.”

She vanished like a flash.

Sir Everard walked down-stairs, and passed his own valet sleepily ascending.

“I beg your parding, Sir Heverard,” said the valet; “but we was all very anxious about you.  Sir Galahad came galloping home riderless, and—­”

“That will do, Edward.  You did not disturb Lady Kingsland?”

“No, Sir Heverard.”

Sir Everard passed abruptly on and sought the stables at once.  Sir Galahad was there, undergoing his morning toilet, and greeted his master with a loud neigh of delight.

The young baronet dawdled away the lagging morning hours, smoking endless cigars under the waving trees, and waiting for the time when my lady should be visible.  She rarely rose before noon, but to-day she deigned to get up at nine.  Sir Everard flung away his last cigar, and went bounding up the grand stairs three at a time.

Lady Kingsland sat breakfasting in her boudoir with her daughter—­a charming little bijou of a room, all filigree work, and fluted walls, delicious little Greuze paintings, and flowers and perfume—­and Lady Kingsland, in an exquisitely becoming robe de matin, at five-and-fifty looked fair and handsome, and scarce middle-aged yet.  Time, that deals so gallantly with these blonde beauties, had just thinned the fair hair at the parting, and planted dainty crow’s-feet about the patrician mouth, but left no thread of silver under the pretty Parisian lace cap.

Mildred Kingsland, opposite her mother, scarcely bore her thirty years so gracefully.  She had had her little romance, and it had been incontinently nipped in the bud by imperious mamma, and she had dutifully yielded, with the pain sharp in her heart all the same.  But he was poor, and Mildred was weak, and so Lady Kingsland’s only daughter glided uncomplainingly into old-maidenhood.