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remembrance. Her head ached and she went heavy-eyed into breakfast. Power was not there, to her great relief. He had gone out early and did not return till supper-time. Then she avoided his eyes and he was really tactful—did not attempt to talk to her, but sat and read quietly all the evening while she played backgammon with the unconscious Uncle Markham.

Things went smoothly during the next week or two. Power kept out of her way to a great extent, and if they were left alone together barely spoke to her. By degrees Pamela’s confidence returned. He really was sorry and he was behaving very well. Incidentally she missed her rides, and found it hard to explain to Uncle Markham why she had suddenly grown tired of going out and preferred to spend lazy days doing nothing at all.

“You’re not looking as well as you did a fortnight ago, Pamela,” he said finally one evening. “You don’t take half enough exercise.”

“I walk, Uncle Markham.”

“Walk! Oh, yes—down to the end of the lower orchard and back again—I know. You don’t call that exercise, do you? You looked far better when you rode a lot, but you say you’re tired of that. The fact is, little girl, you’re getting tired of country life altogether; you want to leave us and go back to England.”

“Indeed I don’t, Uncle Markham. I love being with you.”

He looked so sad in his belief that she really wanted to go away that she would have promised anything he asked. She took his hand, and he stroked hers gently, looking down at her with kind, troubled eyes. He loved his little English niece and he wanted to keep her.

“You don’t believe me? How am I going to convince you? . . . Perhaps I have been lazy lately. Perhaps—Mr. Power will take me for a little ride to-morrow.”