"No; you will do very well as you are!" he declared approvingly.
They left the house together. Muriel wondering who her father's friend was, for he was not usually anxious that she should know his acquaintances. Arrived at the hotel, which was not more than five minutes' walk from Alma Terrace, Mr. Wake led the way to a private sitting-room, with a magnificent view from the windows of the great Atlantic Ocean that now stretched blue and calm beneath the August sunshine.
To Muriel's astonishment the only occupant of the room was a lady clad in a soft grey gown, with ruffles of white lace at throat and wrists—such a pretty lady, the little girl thought, as she met the glance of a pair of lovely dark brown eyes.
"Marian," said Mr. Wake, as he took Muriel by the hand and led her to the stranger, "this is my child. Muriel, this is my wife!"
Before Muriel had time to realise the situation, the lady caught her in her arms, and kissed her as she had never been kissed in her whole life before.
"You dear little thing!" said a bright, kind voice. "I do hope you will learn to like me by and by! How astonished you look, and I'm sure it's no wonder!"
The lady drew her to a chair, and sat down by her side. Muriel glanced around for her father, but he was gone.
"He has run away," said her companion, rightly interpreting the look. "Perhaps he thinks we shall get to know each other better without him."
"Are you—has he—that is, is it really true you are his wife?" Muriel asked, finding her tongue at last.
"Quite true. We were married in London early yesterday morning, and arrived at Bude last night, coming on here to-day, so that I might see you. Now, you won't begin to dislike me before you've given me a fair trial as a stepmother, will you?"