"Her father's daughter, surely! bent on having her own way. What a fairy it is! and yet such a perfect picture of health."
"Mabel was never ill an hour in her life, I believe," said her father; "she is not at all too good for this world. I only hope she may not grow up the torment of your life—she is thoroughly spoiled."
"And I fear if she were not, I should do it. Ah! I expect she will be a great comfort to me, and a world of good to Rupert. He has never had a playmate of his own years, and children need children as much as they need sunshine."
They sat for ten minutes conversing gravely, chiefly on business matters connected with little May's annuity—not at all as they had conversed three days before by the seaside. Then, as half-past seven drew near, the captain arose.
"I must go; I will hardly be in time as it is. Come here, little May, and bid papa good-bye."
"Let papa come to May," responded his daughter, still rocking. "I can't get off."
Captain Everard laughed, went over, bent down and kissed her.
"Good-bye, May; don't forget papa, and learn to be a good girl. Good bye, baronet; try and grow strong and tall. Farewell, Lady Thetford, with my best thanks."
She held his hand, looking up in his sun-burned face with tears in her dark eyes.
"We may never meet again, Captain Everard," she said hurriedly. "Tell me before we part that you forgive me the past."