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were unusually pleasant spots in a pleasant and quite uneventful voyage. It was good to know that that pink-and-white kid was sport enough to want to get away from the watch-dogs now and then.

But at the end they parted without saying good-bye, and went their ways forgetting; Tony had plenty of varied interests to occupy his thoughts, and Pamela returned to her orderly, sheltered life at Trent Stoke. It was rather a loveless little life, on the whole, though the child was scarcely aware of it. Her father she could not remember at all. Her mother’s sudden death when Pamela was not more than five was still remembered with a sense of awe—nothing more, for Elizabeth Learmonth, reserved and undemonstrative, had never made a pet of her small daughter. Pamela was not used to petting. No one had ever been unkind to her; she was surrounded by care—cramped and stifled with it, in reality; spoilt by a profusion of attentions and toys; but she had to be satisfied with the love bestowed by governesses and her old nurse, for Aunt Sophia, though devoted to Pamela’s interests, could not be described as loving. Her grandfather’s death, three years ago now—(Tony was droving somewhere in Australia then)—had made very little difference to her really. She had been rather afraid of the taciturn old man who took so little notice of his granddaughter. She liked being Lady Trent—it gave one a pleasantly important feeling—and she liked to know that Trent Stoke was always to be her home—her very own—for she loved it all—the grey, impressive old house, the beautiful gardens, and, best of all, the park, especially when she was allowed to walk there by herself, which was very seldom. She was fond of Aunt Sophia, of course, and of Miss Whitney too; but grownups did spoil one’s best thoughts and break up all one’s dreams.

Aunt Sophia and Uncle Roger Learmonth spent a great