“Colonel Ferrers, what will you think of us?” cried Mrs. Merryweather, looking up as her host entered the room.  “This unlucky child of mine has done something dreadful.  Get up, Gerty, and let me get the pieces from under you.  I do so hope it may be mended.”

“Heaven forefend,” said Colonel Ferrers, hastily.  “Is it—­I can hardly hope it—­is it truly the pink vase, the pink vase with the stag’s head on it?”

“Ye—­yes!” sobbed poor Gertrude, getting up from the floor, and seeking vainly for her handkerchief.  “Oh, I am so sorry!”

“My dear child,” cried the Colonel, and he took Gertrude by both hands, “my dear young benefactress, how can I ever thank you!  You have relieved me of a heavy burden.”

“Why? what?” cried all.

The Colonel pointed to the broken china, and gave a great sigh of relief.  “You behold there,” he said, “now happily in fragments, the bane of my existence.  That—­that horror—­was given me three years ago by a valued servant and friend, my man Guiseppe.  He bought it for my birthday; spent ten of his hard-earned dollars on it, foolish, faithful creature that he is.  What could I do?  It was,—­the enormity you perceive.  I was obliged to give it a place of honour,—­fortunately, I seldom use this room when I am alone; I was forced to praise its tint, which I abominate, and its shape, which is wholly detestable.  What would you?  I could not wound my good Guiseppe; the vase has remained, the chief ornament—­in his eyes—­of my drawing-room.  Now, thanks to you, my charming child, I am delivered of this encumbrance, and my poor white and gold can appear without this hideous blot on its purity.”

Gertrude wiped her eyes, much relieved at this novel view of her infirmity, and all the others laughed heartily.

“And now,” said the good Colonel, “is it not time for some games, Hilda, or something of the kind?  Command me, young people.  Shall I be blind man, at your service?”

It was a pleasant sight to see the Colonel, a silk handkerchief tied over his eyes, chasing the young folks hither and thither; pulled this way, twitched that, but always beaming under his bandage, and shouting with merriment.  It was a pleasanter sight, later in the evening, to see him leading out Hildegarde for a quadrille, and taking his place at the head of the figure with stately, old-fashioned grace.  Mrs. Grahame, turning round a moment from her place at the piano, saw his fine face aglow with pleasure, and felt a corresponding warmth at her own heart.  She thought of the gloomy, solitary man he had been a year ago, living alone with his servants, scarcely seeing or speaking to a soul outside his own grounds.  And who shall blame the mother for saying in her heart, with a little thrill of pride, “It was my child who helped him, who brought the sunshine into this good man’s life.  It was my Hildegarde!”

CHAPTER VI.