"I am sorry," he said, "to interfere with your engagements, but it is
necessary that we should both leave by the seven o'clock train
tomorrow morning."
Aynesworth reflected for a moment.
"If I can see the child first," he said, "I will come. If not, I will
follow you at midday."
"In the latter case," Wingrave remarked, "pray do not trouble to
follow me unless your own affairs take you to London. Our connection
will have ended."
"You mean this?" Aynesworth asked.
"It is my custom," Wingrave answered, "to mean what I say."
Aynesworth set his alarm that night for half-past five. It seemed to
him that his future would largely depend upon how soundly the child
slept.
THE HEART OF A CHILD
The cottage, as Aynesworth neared it, showed no sign of life. The
curtainless windows were blank and empty, no smoke ascended from the
chimney. Its plastered front was innocent of any form of creeper, but
in the few feet of garden in front a great, overgrown wild rose bush,
starred with deep red blossoms, perfumed the air. As he drew near, the
door suddenly opened, and with a little cry of welcome the child
rushed out to him.
"How lovely of you!" she cried. "I saw you coming from my window!"
"You are up early," he said, smiling down at her.
"The sun woke me," she answered. "It always does. I was going down to
the sands. Shall we go together? Or would you like to go into the
gardens at Tredowen? The flowers are beautiful there while the dew is
on them!"
"I am afraid," Aynesworth answered, "that I cannot do either.
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