an anxious manner over the top of his newspaper.

[36]

He had looked at her several times while her thoughts were travelling so far away. He felt a distinct sense of responsibility with regard to her, but was handicapped by small knowledge of girls and their ways.

He had done all that he could think of for her comfort. He had provided her with a perfect armful of ladies’ papers, wrapped a travelling rug about her knees, felt her hot-water tin to learn if it were really hot, asked her more than once if he should completely close the window, and seen to it that she had a cup of tea at Donisbro’.

But still he felt a vague uneasiness—a fear that he had not done everything that he might have done. The girl’s eyes were very wistful—the dark grey Lisle eyes, which he had noticed with professional interest. They filled with tears rather often. Mr. Fenton felt distinctly uneasy—he hoped the girl was not going to be hysterical!

She saw him looking at her, and forced a rather pathetic little smile. Mr. Fenton put down his paper, folded it, and leaned forward.

[37]

[37]

“You are not cold, I trust?”

“No, thank you, not at all.”

“Or tired?”

Sydney considered, and thought perhaps she was a little tired.

“We shall be at Dacreshaw in less than twenty minutes,” he informed her, looking at his watch. She thanked him, and then took a sudden resolution, “Mr. Fenton, may I ask you a question?”

“Pray do, my dear Miss Lisle.”

Mr. Fenton felt a little happier about her now, and his tone was fatherly.

“I don’t know anything about my cousin,” she said, looking up at him appealingly; “will he—will he be kind, do you think?”

Mr. Fenton rubbed his hands together in a considering kind of way. “I do not think that you 

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