resist the impulse to take her there—then she was weeping for the plight of the beggars, the crossing sweepers, the old apple women.

He was partly sorry, partly relieved, when they were on a train again steaming westward.

"It is time now," he told her, "for us to stop our little pretence."

"I am no longer to be your daughter?" she asked.

"I think we should be wise to adopt another relationship."

"Yes?"

"We will say that you have been introduced to me by a friend because you want a post, and as my daughter will be lonely, I have taken the opportunity of providing a companion for her."

"I see that you do not wish them to know how good you have been to the daughter of your friend. You do not like being thanked."

"But I do. I like it very much."

She shook her head and gave him her warm smile. "No. When I thank you for my clothes, for the happiness you have brought me, you do not like it. You try to change the subject."

"You thank me too often. Once is enough. And now you must please do as I say. I think it advisable for people to think that you are the protegee of a friend of mine. You have been brought up in France; you need a post, and I thought it would be an excellent idea for you to come and stay with my daughter as her companion. As I told you, she has just lost her mother. She was to have been married soon, and that, of course, will be postponed for at least a year. Meanwhile you can help with her clothes; you can walk with her, do embroidery with her, play the pianoforte with her and teach her to speak good French."

"It shall be as you say," she said solemnly. "I will do all that you wish. My tongue has often been indiscreet but it shall be so no longer. Every time it is in danger of saying what it should not, I shall remind it of all you have done for me, of all the happiness you have brought to me, to the Paris dressmaker, to the nuns and to Monsieur and Madame Lefevre."

"Oh, come, I am not such a universal benefactor!"

"Oh yes, you are. To me—that is clear. To the dressmaker because you buy so much and make good business for her, to Monsieur and Madame Lefevre because you are rich and Armand makes up his stories about you, and you are Madame's special guest; and to the nuns because if you had not come for me I believe I should have run away and that would have given them much sorrow."

"You see the rosy side of life."

"I love all rosiness," she told him. "It is because I must wear ugly black all the time I was at the Convent."

Then suddenly she kissed him again.

"It is the last time," she said. "You are no longer, from this

moment, my father who has come to take me from my finishing school and buys me beautiful clothes in Paris; you are the wise man who takes the opportunity of bringing me as a companion to his daughter."

Then she sat upright in her seat, looking demure, the picture of a young lady going to her first post.

They took the post-chaise when they reached Devon, for the railway had not yet been extended into Cornwall.

Melisande was thoughtful now. The bridge between the old life and the new was nearly crossed. She was thinking with some apprehension of the daughter who was a little older than herself.

They came along the road so slowly that it was possible for her to admire the countryside which was more hilly than any she had ever seen. The roads were so bad that again and again the wheels were stuck in ruts, and the driver and postilion had to alight more than once to put their shoulders to the wheel.

Melisande noticed that Charles was becoming more and more uneasy as they proceeded. She herself grew quiet, catching his mood. He was uneasy because of her, she knew; he wondered perhaps how his daughter would like the companion he was providing for her.

He told her stories of the Duchy while they waited for a wheel to be mended. He told of the Little People in their red coats and sugar loaf hats who haunted this wild country, of the knackers who lived in the tin mines; they were no bigger than dolls but they behaved like old tinners. The miners, in order to keep in their good graces left them a didjan which was a part of the food they took into the mines with them. If they did not leave the knackers' didjans they believed terrible misfortune would overtake them.

Her eyes were round and solemn; she must hear more of these matters. "But who were these knackers? They were very wicked, were they not?"

They could be spiteful, he told her; but they could be bribed to goodness if they were left their crout. They were said to be the spirits of the Jews who had crucified Christ.

"How shall I know them and the Little People if I meet them?"

"I doubt whether you will meet them. Soon you will see old miners. The knackers are like them, but they could sit in your

hands. The Little People wear scarlet jackets and sugar loaf hats."

"What if I had no food to give them ? I could give them my handkerchief, I suppose. Or perhaps my bonnet." Her eyes were mournful at the thought of losing her bonnet.

"They would find no use for the bonnet," he said quickly. "It would be much too big. And you may never meet them. I never have."

"But I want to."

"People are terrified of meeting them. Some won't go out after dark for fear of doing so."

She said: "I should be terrified." She shivered and laughed. "All the same I want to."

He laughed at the way in which she peered out of the window.

"These are just legends," he said. "That is what people say nowadays. But this is a land of strangeness. I hope you will be happy in it."

"I am happy. I think this is the happiest time of my life."

"Let us hope it will be the beginning of a happy life."

"I was far from unhappy in the Convent," she said, "but I wanted something to happen . . . something wonderful . . . like your coming for me and taking me away with you."

"Is that so very wonderful?"

She looked at him in astonishment. "The most wonderful thing that could ever happen to anyone in a convent."

He was alarmed suddenly. He leaned forward and laid his hand over hers. "We can't say that anything is good or bad until we see the effect it has upon us. I don't know whether I am doing the right thing. I trust I am, my child."

"But this is the right thing. I know it. It is what I always wanted. I wished and wished that it would happen . . . and you see, it has."

"Ah," he said lightly, "perhaps you are one of those fortunate people whose wishes are granted."

"I must be."

"Perhaps my daughter will take you to one of our wishing wells. There you can make your wish, and we will hope that the piskies will grant it."

She said: "I will wish now." She closed her eyes. "I am wishing for . . ."

"No," he said laughing, "don't tell me. That would break the spell."

"What a wonderful place this is! There are Little People, piskies and knackers. I am going to be happy here. I am going to be so good a companion for your daughter that you will be very glad you decided to bring me here."

She was silent thinking of all that she would wish for herself and others.

And eventually they went on with their journey.

It was dusk when they turned in at the drive of Trevenning. The woman at the lodge came out to curtsey and open the gate. Melisande wanted to ask a good many questions about the woman, but she sat still, her hands folded in her lap. She must remember that their relationship had changed. He was becoming more and more remote, more stern; she must continually remind herself that she was only his daughter's companion now.