always knew everything that was going on.

"If we only wait long enough," said Short philosophically, "they are sure
to come out."

"Perhaps," returned Cornelius rather doubtfully.

"They" did come out. The drawing-room door opened and there was a sound
of voices. It was a woman's voice, and a particularly sweet voice, too.
Still no one came down the passage. The lady seemed to be lingering in
taking her leave. Then there was a sound of small feet and suddenly a
little girl stood before the open door of the study, looking wonderingly
at the two young men. Short thought he had never seen such a beautiful
child. She could not have been more than seven or eight years old, and
was not tall for her age; a delicate little figure, all in black, with
long brown curls upon her shoulders, flowing abundantly from beneath a
round black sailor's hat that was set far back upon her head. The child's
face was rather pale than very fair, of a beautiful transparent paleness,
with the least tinge of colour in the cheeks; her great violet eyes gazed
wonderingly into the study, and her lips parted in childlike uncertainty,
while her little gloved hand rested on the door-post as though to get a
sense of security from something so solid.

It was only for a moment. Both the young fellows smiled at the child
unconsciously. Perhaps she thought they were laughing at her; she turned
and ran away again; then passed a second time, stealing a long glance at
the two strangers, but followed immediately by the lady, who was probably
her mother, and whose voice had been heard for the last few moments. The
lady, too, glanced in as she went by, and John Short lost his heart then
and there; not that the lady was beautiful as the little girl was, but