“Well, I’m sure!”

The jesting salutation came from Harry Carradyne.  Despatched in search of the truants, he had found Kate at the Vicarage, making much of the last new baby there, and devouring a sumptuous tea of cakes and jam.  Miss West?  Oh, Miss West was sitting in the church porch, talking to old Nancy Cale, she said to Harry.

“Why!  What is it?” he exclaimed in dismay, finding that the burst of emotion which he had taken to be laughter, meant tears.  “What has happened, Alice?”

She could no more have kept the tears in than she could help—­presently—­telling him the news.  He sat down by her and held her close to him, and pressed for it.  She was the daughter of George West, who had died in the dispute with Captain Monk in the dining-room at the Hall so many years before, and who was lying here in the corner of the churchyard; and she had never, never known it!

Mr. Carradyne was somewhat taken to; there was no denying it; chiefly by surprise.

“I thought your father was a soldier, Alice—­Colonel West; and died when serving in India.  I’m sure it was said so when you came.”

“Oh, no, that could not have been said,” she cried; “unless Mrs. Moffit, the agent, made the mistake.  It was my uncle who died in India.  No one here ever questioned me about my parents, knowing they were dead.  Oh, dear,” she went on in agitation, after a silent pause, “what am I to do now?  I cannot stay at the Hall.  Captain Monk would not allow it either.”

“No need to tell him,” quoth Mr. Harry.

“And—­of course—­we must part.  You and I.”

“Indeed!  Who says so?”

“I am not sure that it would be right to—­to—­you know.”

“To what?  Go on, my dear.”

Alice sighed; her eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the fast falling twilight.  “Mrs. Carradyne will not care for me when she knows who I am,” she said in low tones.

“My dear, shall I tell you how it strikes me?” returned Harry:  “that my mother will be only the more anxious to have you connected with us by closer and dearer ties, so as to atone to you, in even a small degree, for the cruel wrong which fell upon your father.  As to me—­it shall be made my life’s best and dearest privilege.”

But when a climax such as this takes place, the right or the wrong thing to be done cannot be settled in a moment.  Alice West did not see her way quite clearly, and for the present she neither said nor did anything.

This little matter occurred on the Friday in Christmas week; on the following day, Saturday, Mrs. Hamlyn was returning to London.  Christmas Day this year had fallen on a Monday.  Some old wives hold a superstition that when that happens, it inaugurates but small luck for the following year, either for communities or for individuals.  Not that that fancy has anything to do with the present history.  Captain Monk’s banquet would not be held until the Monday night:  as was customary when New Year’s Eve fell on a Sunday.  He had urged his daughter to remain over New Year’s Day; but she declined, on the plea that as she had been away from her husband on Christmas Day, she would like to pass New Year’s Day with him.  The truth being that she wanted to get to London to see after that yellow-haired lady who was supposed to be peeping after Philip Hamlyn.