inquisition into the romances of their lives.

“Mr. Hennessey,” said Phyl, after a moment’s silence, “suppose Father has left Mr. Pinckney all his money—what will become of me?”

“The Lord only knows,” said Hennessey; “but what’s been putting such fancies in your head?”

“I don’t know,” replied the girl. “I was just thinking. Of course he wouldn’t do such a thing—It’s your talking of the will the last time you were here set me on, I suppose, but I dreamed last night Mr. Pinckney came and he was an American with a beard like Uncle Sam in Punch last week, and he said Father had made a will and left him everything—he’d left him me as well as everything else, and the dogs and all the servants and Kilgobbin—then I woke up.”

“Well, you were dreaming nonsense,” said the 14 practical Hennessey. “A man can’t leave his daughter away from him, though I’m half thinking there’s many a man would be willing enough if he could.”

14

Phyl raised her head. Her quick ear had caught a sound from the avenue. Then the crash of wheels on gravel came from outside and her companion, rising hurriedly from his chair, went to the window.

“That’s him,” said the easy-speaking Hennessey.

15

CHAPTER II

He left the room and Phyl, rising from the hearthrug, stood with her hand on the mantelpiece listening.

Hennessey had left the door open and she could hear a confused noise from the hall, the sound of luggage being brought in, the bustle of servants and a murmur of voices.

Then a voice that made her start.

“Thanks, I can carry it myself.”

It was the newcomer’s voice, he was being conducted to his room by Hennessey. It was a cheerful, youthful voice, not in the least suggestive of Uncle Sam with the goatee beard as depicted by the unimaginative artist of Punch. And it was a voice she had heard before, so she fancied, but where, she could not possibly 

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