"What is his name?" asks Lilian, giving the boy a last fond poke with her pretty slender finger.
"Abiram, miss," replies the mother, which name much displeases Lilian, who would have liked to hear he was called Alaric, or Lancelot, or any other poetical appellation suitable for the most beautiful child in the world.
"A very charming name," says Guy, gravely; and, having squeezed a half-sovereign into the little fellow's fat hand, he and Lilian go through the passages into the open air.
"Guardy," says Lilian, "what is a 'promiscuous baby'?"
"I wish I knew," replies he: "I confess it has been puzzling me ever since. We must ask Florence when we go in."
Here they both laugh a little, and stroll on for a time in silence. At length, being prompted thereto by her evil genius, Lilian says:
"Tell me, who is the Heskett you and auntie were talking about just now?"
"A boy who lives down in the hollow beneath Leigh's farm,—a dark boy we met one day at the end of the lawn; you remember him?"
"A lad with great black eyes and a handsome face with just a little soupçon of wickedness about him? of course I do. Oh! I like that boy. You must forgive him, Sir Guy, or I shall be unhappy forever."
"Do you know him?"