shrewd, motherly way felt something of the same fear.

"Eh, the poor lamb!" she sighed--"That old French knight was ever
a fly in her brain and a stumbling-block in the way of us all!--
and now to come across a man o' the same name an' family, turning
up all unexpected like,--why, it's like a ghost's sudden risin'
from the tomb! An' what does it mean, Mister Robin? Are you the
master o' Briar Farm now?--or is he the rightful one?"

Clifford laughed, a trifle bitterly.

"I am the master," he said, "according to my uncle's will. This
man is a painter--famous and admired,--he'll scarcely go in for
farming! If he did--if he'd buy the farm from me--I should be glad
enough to sell it and leave the country."

"Mister Robin!" cried Priscilla, reproachfully.

He patted her hand gently.

"Not yet--not yet anyhow, Priscilla!" he said--"I may be yet of
some use--to Innocent." He paused, then added, slowly--"I think we
shall hear more of this second Amadis de Jocelyn!"

But months went on, and he heard nothing, save of Innocent's
growing fame which, by leaps and bounds, was spreading abroad like
fire blown into brightness by the wind. He got her first book and
read it with astonishment and admiration, utterly confounded by
its brilliancy and power. When her second work appeared with her
adopted name appended to it as the author, all the reading world