"It will be rather difficult," rejoined the good fellow, wondering if the avaricious wretch, who grudged the value of a few annas, would also require the egg-shells. "But I'll see what can be done." After a few words respecting luggage, labels, tickets, and, above all, an early start, the men parted. Gascoigne strolled back to his quarters, a prey to some anxious thoughts. What passion was embodied in the child's puny embrace, and was it to be, as Shafto predicted, a millstone about his neck as long as ever he lived? There was no blinking the fact, that he had accepted a serious charge. Angel was totally apart from other little girls of her age who cared for chocolates and dolls. She was only interested in human puppets, in the serious things of life, her feelings and emotions far transcended her years. She was a child in a thousand, for good or evil. Clever, resolute, unscrupulous, secret, yes, she was all that, but she was also devoted, unselfish, and faithful.

Her future would be a matter of profound anxiety; fortunately the thread of her fate lay in no hand save his own.

CHAPTER XIII
ANGEL'S WINGS ARE CLIPPED

Lady Augusta Gascoigne was the daughter of a marquis, the widow of a baronet, and our little Angel's grandmamma. She lived in a small house in Hill Street, with her daughter Eva, a plain, awkward, distressingly shy woman of seven-and-thirty, who remained on her parents' hands as a hopelessly unmarketable article, when her two younger sisters had made brilliant matches, and covered their chaperon with glory. But Eva's sole suitor was an ineligible, who had been dismissed with indignation and contumely, and as Miss Gascoigne disliked society and dress, she had subsided into genteel obscurity—her mother's housekeeper and drudge.

Lady Augusta was blessed with an iron constitution and the vigor of perpetual youth; with her slender figure, well-poised head, and active movements, she appeared at a little distance to be about thirty, albeit the remorseless Peerage stated her years to be three-score. She wore her clothes with grace, employed a French maid—well versed in "the art of beauty"—and got all her gowns in Paris. She patronized the turf, the theatre, and the most popular foreign Spas; her supper and roulette parties were renowned. She carried on her correspondence by telegram, and lived in a perpetual whirl. Her ladyship still retained the remains of considerable beauty; her nose was delicately chiselled (and came out well in her photographs); her eyes were blue, very quick, and rather closely set together; her hair, which had once been red, had faded to a pale sandy shade, and was marvellously crimped and curled—and matched. She was exceedingly vivacious, cheery, and popular, always well-dressed, always well posted in the earliest news, the newest story, and the coming scandal, and men thronged around Lady Augusta like flies about a pot of honey. She was constantly in evidence; her comings and goings, her little dinners and race parties were faithfully recorded. She was smart, her friends were smart, her turn-out was smart, and when she appeared at church parade "wearing her sables," or at the opera "wearing her diamonds," or merely driving down Sloane Street with "a bunch of violets tucked into her coat," were not all these doings chronicled in the Society papers?

Lady Augusta was thoroughly satisfied with her surroundings and herself, and put all painful thoughts, such as the memory of her two dead sons, far from her. She was entirely without heart or sympathy, and turned her back on sickness, suffering, and all disagreeables. She was quick to seize on, and enjoy, every passing pleasure, and declared herself a philosopher—but people who disapproved of this callous and volatile lady called her by another name.

Immediately after the death of Mrs. Wilkinson, Philip Gascoigne wrote to Lady Augusta, and informed her that he had undertaken the charge of her granddaughter, and if not actually requiring her sanction, at any rate deferring to her opinion, and asking advice respecting the child's education. To this announcement, Angel's grandmamma replied by the following mail, declaring that she had hitherto been under the impression that Tony's child had died in infancy, and that whilst she warmly applauded Philip's benevolence, she failed to feel the faintest interest in the offspring of the late Mrs. Wilkinson, and that any authority that might be supposed to lie with her, she transferred to him with all her heart. Her ladyship went on to say that he was a bold man to saddle himself with a girl of nine; born and brought up in India, and that his wisest course would be to send her to some cheap hill school, or convent out there, when, later on, she could become a governess or a nun. When was he coming home, and when was he going to marry? With a few items of society gossip, the letter was concluded by his affectionate Aunt Augusta. A more cool and heartless epistle the recipient had never perused. As soon as he had mastered its contents, he tore it into little pieces across and across, and tossed it into the paper basket—even Colonel Wilkinson was not more anxious to repudiate the child than her own grandmother.

By this time the friendless little waif had arrived in England safely, and one of her early letters will best describe her impressions. It was written over three sheets of foreign paper, with much underlining, scratching out, and bad spelling.

"Tenterden House, Wimbledon.