well,—­in quiet taste, with a careful avoidance of anything foolish or eccentric in fashion, and wherever she went she made her effect as a graceful young presence expressive of repose and harmony.  She spoke delightfully,—­in a delicious voice, attuned to the most melodious inflections, and her constant study of the finer literature of the past gave her certain ways of expressing herself in a manner so far removed from the abrupt slanginess commonly used to-day by young people of both sexes that she was called “quaint” by some and “weird” by others of her own sex, though by men young and old she was declared “charming.”  Guarded and chaperoned by good old Miss Lavinia Leigh, she had no cause to be otherwise than satisfied with her apparently reckless and unguided plunge into the mighty vortex of London,—­some beneficent spirit had led her into a haven of safety and brought her straight to the goal of her ambition without difficulty.

“Of course I owe it all to Dad,” she thought.  “If it had not been for the four hundred pounds he left me to ‘buy pretties’ with I could not have done anything.  I have bought my ’pretties’!—­not bridal ones—­but things so much better!”

As the memory of her “Dad” came over her, tears sprang to her eyes.  In her mind she saw the smooth green pastures round Briar Farm—­the beautiful old gabled house,—­the solemn trees waving their branches in the wind over the tomb of the “Sieur Amadis,”—­ the doves wheeling round and round in the clear air, and her own “Cupid” falling like a snowflake from the roof to her caressing hand.  All the old life of country sights and sounds passed before her like a fair mirage, giving place to dark days of sorrow, disillusion and loss,—­the fleeting glimpse of her self-confessed “mother,” Lady Maude Blythe,—­and the knowledge she had so unexpectedly gained as to the actual identity of her father—­he, whose portrait was in the very house to which she had come through no more romantic means than a chance advertisement in the “Morning Post!” And Miss Lavinia—­her “fairy godmother”—­could she have found a better friend, even in any elf stepping out of a magic pumpkin?

“If she ever knows the truth—­if I am ever able to tell her that I am his daughter,” she said to herself, “I wonder if she will care for me less or more?  But I must not tell her!—­She says he was so good and noble!  It would break her heart to think he had done anything wrong—­or that he had deserted his child.”

And so she held her peace on this point, though she was often tempted to break silence whenever Miss Leigh reverted to the story of her being left in such a casual, yet romantic way at Briar Farm.

“I wonder who the handsome man was, my dear?” she would query—­ “Perhaps he’ll go back to the place and enquire for you.  He may be some very great personage!”

And Innocent would smile and shake her head.

“I fear not, my godmother!” she would reply.  “You must not have any fairy dreams about me!  I was just a deserted baby—­not wanted in the world—­but the world may have to take me all the same!”