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“Pamela! Give me a kiss, child! . . . Now let me look at you. Not a bit like poor old Bob, are you? His eyes were blue, but you’re your mother’s daughter. . . . Well, I can’t say how glad I am to see you!”

Already the train was disappearing round a curve. Pamela and a modest amount of luggage had been deposited on the platform, alone in a new world. And this was Uncle Markham, who really was glad to see her. Pamela squeezed the brown hand that still held hers and smiled up at the face that was very like Uncle Roger’s—rather thinner and browner, and his moustache was greyer, certainly—oh, of course he was very different, but kind, and an uncle; she liked him at once.

“Come along. I’ve done all my business in town, and we can drive straight home, unless you’re tired and would like a rest first? . . . No? All right! We’ll go right away. We can take all your traps with us, I think.”

“How awfully good of you to drive all this long way to meet me, Uncle Markham!”

“Twenty miles? We think nothing of that. We always drive in. There is a stage—a coach, you know—but it passes our place in the middle of the night, so we don’t make much use of it. . . . There! Comfortable? Right, then!”

Pamela enjoyed the twenty-mile drive. The air was beautiful—like soft kisses on her face as they drove—the