She was a treasure, this ex-lad in velveteen, and my lady counted it a lucky day that brought her to Kingsland.  But Miss Sybilla belonged to my lady’s son, and not to my lady.  To the young lord of Kingsland her allegiance was due, and at his bidding she was ready, at a moment’s notice, to desert the female standard.

Sir Everard, who took a kindly interest in the dashing damsel with the coal-black hair and eyes, who had shot the poacher, put the question plump one day: 

“My mother and sister leave before the end of the year, Sybilla.  Will you desert me, too?”

“Never, Sir Everard!  I will never desert you while you wish me to stay.”

“I should like it, I confess.  It will be horribly dreary for my bride to come home to a house where there is no one to welcome her but the servants.  If my mother can spare you, Sybilla, I wish you would stay.”

As once before, she lifted his hand to her lips.

“Sybilla belongs to you, Sir Everard!  Command, and she will obey.”

He laughed, but he also reddened as he drew his hand hastily away.

“Oh, pooh! don’t be melodramatic!  There is no question of commanding and obeying about it.  You are free to do as you please.  If you choose to remain, give Lady Kingsland proper notice.  If you prefer to go, why, I must look out for some one to take your place.  Don’t be in a hurry—­there’s plenty of time to decide.”

He swung on and left her.

“Plenty of time to decide,” she repeated, with a smile curling her thin lips.  “My good Sir Everard, I decided long ago!  Marry your fox-hunting bride—­bring her home.  Sybilla Silver will be here to welcome her, never fear!”

The baronet stayed three weeks in England—­then returned impatiently to Paris.  Of course the rapture of the meeting more than repaid the pain of parting.

She was growing more beautiful every day, the infatuated young man thought, over her books; and the sun of France shone on nothing half so lovely as this tall, slender damsel, in her gray school uniform and prim, black silk apron.

The summer went.  Sir Everard was back and forth across the Channel, like an insane human pendulum, and the work went bravely on!  Kingsland was being transformed—­the landscape gardeners and the London upholsterers had carte blanche, and it was the story of Aladdin’s Palace over again.  Sir Everard rubbed his golden lamp, and, lo! mighty genii rose up and worked wonders.

September came—­the miracles ceased.  Even money and men could do no more.  October came.

Sir Everard’s year of probation was expired.  The Reverend Cyrus Green overcame heroically his horror of seasickness and steamers, and went to Paris in person for his ward.  As plain Miss Hunsden, without a shilling to bless herself with, the Reverend Cyrus would not by any means have thought this extreme step necessary; but for the future Lady Kingsland to travel alone was not for an instant to be thought of.  So he went, and the first week of November he brought her home.