In a private room at an hotel near the London Bridge terminus of the South-Eastern Railway sat a party of five at breakfast.
The lady is a stranger, but we have met Arthur Franklyn and his two daughters before. Clara and Mabel have grown since we last saw them watching by the dying bed of their dear mother; indeed, Clara at the age of fifteen has the appearance and manners of a woman.
Between the sisters sits a boy of eleven, in whose dark eyes and delicate features can be traced a much stronger resemblance to those of his lost mother than in either of his sisters.
Arthur Franklyn looks more aged during the two years that have elapsed since his wife's death than might have been expected, and his face has a careworn expression, which greatly changes his appearance.
The door opens, and a respectable-looking woman enters the room, leading by the hand a beautiful little boy of about three years and a half old. The child runs towards his father, who lifting him on his knee, exclaimed—"What, come to have breakfast with papa, Ally?"
"Yes, papa; may I?"
"No, let him go to nurse, Arthur," said a fretful voice; "he's too young to breakfast with us after such a fatiguing journey. I wonder you wish me to be troubled with all the children at once."
Arthur Franklyn looked annoyed.
"Anything for peace," he said, as he placed the boy on the floor; and yet his heart misgave him as he saw the piteous look on the face of poor Fanny's youngest born, as the little one struggled to keep back the tears.
"Ally shall have breakfast with Clara," said the young girl, rising from her chair and casting a look of defiance at her stepmother; then lifting the little boy in her arms, she added, "papa, please send my teacup and plate by nurse," and she turned from the room as she spoke, little Albert clinging to her neck, his bright curls mixing with her dark hair in pleasing contrast.