think you know the look of me now, don't you? Where is your nurse? Ought you not to be in your bed? This is not the place for little girls, you know."

"I was thinking you would kiss me," and the child's lips began to quiver, while a pink flush rose to her cheeks, and she glanced wistfully round, in the hope of seeing some sympathetic face near her.

But Sir Edward could not bring himself to do this. Laying his hand on the curly head raised to his, he patted it as he might his dog, and said,—

"There, there! Now you have introduced yourself to me, you can run away. What is your name? Millicent, isn't it?"

"Milly is my name. And are all these gentlemen my uncles too?"

The tone of doubtful inquiry was too much for the little company, and Milly's question was answered by a shout of laughter.

Again the child's face flushed, and then a grey-haired man stepped forward.

"Come, Wentworth, this is a severe ordeal for such a mite. I have grandchildren of my own, so am not so scared as you. Now, little one, is that better?"

And in an instant the child was lifted by him and placed upon his knee as he took a seat by the fire.

Milly heaved a short sigh.

"I like this," she said, looking up at him confidingly. "Does Uncle Edward really want me to go to bed? Nurse said it wasn't time yet. Nurse wanted her supper, so she sent me in here while she had it."

"The reign of the nurse has begun," said Sir Edward. "Well, it may be a very fine joke to all you fellows, but if I don't make my authority felt at once, it will be all up with me. Lovell, be so good as to ring that bell."

Sir Edward's voice was irate when his old butler appeared.

"Ford, take this child to her nurse, and tell her that she is never to appear in my presence again unless sent for. Now, Millicent, go at once."

The child slid down from her seat, but though evidently puzzled at the quick, sharp words, she seemed to have no fear, for, going up to her uncle, she slipped her little hand into his.

"Are you angry, uncle? What does 'presence' mean? Will you say, 'Good-night; God bless you,' to me?"

With the baby fingers clinging to his, what could Sir Edward say?

"Good-night; good-night, child! Now go."

"Say, 'God bless you!'" persisted the little one, and it was not till her uncle muttered the desired words that she relinquished her hold and followed the butler sedately out of the room.

CHAPTER II.

Sir Edward Wentworth was, as he expressed it, a "confirmed bachelor," and though during the autumn months he was quite willing to fill his house with his London friends, he was better pleased to live the greater part of the year in seclusion, occupying himself with looking after his estate and writing articles for several of the leading reviews of the day.

The advent of his small niece was indeed a great trial to him, but, with his characteristic thoroughness, he determined that he would make the necessary arrangements for her comfort. Accordingly he had a long interview with her nurse the following morning. It proved to be satisfactory. The nurse was a staid, elderly woman, who assured him she was accustomed to the sole charge of the child, and would keep her entirely under her own control.

"I expect you would like her to be sent down to you in the evening—at dessert, perhaps, sir?" she inquired.

Sir Edward pulled the ends of his moustache dubiously. "Is it necessary? I thought children ought to be in bed at that time."

"Of course it shall be as you like, sir. You do not dine so late as some do. I thought you would expect to see her once in the day."

After a little hesitation Sir Edward gave his permission; and when he found that Milly neither screamed nor snatched for the fruit on the table, and did not herself engross the whole conversation, he became quite reconciled to the little white figure stealing in and occupying the chair that was always placed at his left-hand side for her.

Beyond this he saw very little of her while his guests were with him; but afterwards, when they had all left him, and he relapsed into his ordinary life, he was constantly coming across her. Sometimes he would find her in the stables, her arms round the stable cat, and the grooms holding a voluble conversation with her, or among the cows at the bottom of the paddock, or feeding the pigs and fowls in the poultry yard. Generally she was attended by Fritz, a beautiful collie, who had, with the fickleness of his nature, transferred his affection from his master to her, and though uncertain in temper towards most, was never anything but amiable when with the little girl.

Her uncle's form approaching was quite a sufficient hint to her to make herself scarce. She would generally anticipate the usual formula: "Now run away child, to nurse," by singing out cheerfully: "I am just off, uncle," and by the time he had reached the spot where she was standing the little figure would be running off in the distance, Fritz close at her heels.

One afternoon Sir Edward was returning from a stroll up the avenue when he saw the child at play among the trees, and for a moment he paused and watched her. She appeared to be very busy with a doll wrapped in a fur rug which she carefully deposited at the foot of the tree; then for some minutes she and Fritz seemed to be having a kind of a game of hide and seek with one another, until she pushed him into a bush and commanded him to stay there. Suddenly dog and child darted at each other, and then, to Sir Edward's amazement, he saw his little niece seize Fritz by the throat and bring him to the ground. When both were rolling over one another, and Fritz's short, sharp barks became rather indignant in tone, as he vainly tried to escape from the little hands so tightly round him, Sir Edward thought it high time to interfere.

"Millicent," he called out sharply, "come to me at once; what are you doing?"

In an instant Milly was upon her feet, and lifting a hot flushed little face to his, she placed herself in her favorite attitude when in his presence; her hands clasped behind her back, and feet closely planted together.

"Don't you know Fritz might bite if you are so rough with him? Were you trying to choke him?" demanded her uncle.

"Yes," she responded, breathless from her late exertions, "I was trying to kill him! He's a bear, and that's my lamb, and I am David; that's all."

A child's games were beyond Sir Edward's comprehension. He looked down upon her with a knitted brow.

She continued—

"You see, he has to do for both, a bear and a lion, for they both came, and they both tried to get the lamb. Nurse was the lion one day, but she is too big; I can't knock her down, though I try hard."

"I will not have Fritz knocked down in that fashion. He might hurt you," said Sir Edward, sternly.

Milly looked sorrowful; then brightening up, she asked—

"But I may kill Goliath, mayn't I? Do you know that is one of my games. See, I'm David, and you see that big old tree standing by itself? That's Goliath. He is looking at me now. Do you see where his eyes come? Just up there in those first branches. When it's windy he shakes his head at me fearful! He's a wicked, wicked old thing, and he thinks no one can knock him down. Do you remember about him, uncle?"

Sir Edward was becoming slightly interested. He leaned against a tree and took out a cigar.

"No, I don't think I do," he said.

"Don't you remember? He stood up so proud, and called out: 'Choose a man to come and fight me.' He's saying that to me now. I'm David, you know, and I'm going. Just wait a moment till I'm ready."

She darted away to where her doll was, and soon returned with a tiny calico bag, which she opened very carefully and disclosed to her uncle's puzzled gaze five round stones.

"You see," she went on, "it's a pity I