"I will trust you," he said; "I will help you, blindly, since it must be so. Let me ask you two or three questions, then all questioning between us shall be at an end."

"I am ready to answer any inquiry that it is possible for me to answer."

"Your name?"

"My name is Honoria Milford."

"Your age?"

"Eighteen."

"Tell me, how is it that your manner of speaking, your tones of voice, are those of a person who has received a superior education?"

"I am not entirely uneducated. An Italian priest, a cousin of my poor mother's, bestowed some care upon me when I was in Florence. He was a very learned man, and taught me much that is rarely taught to a girl of fourteen or fifteen. His house was my refuge in days of cruel misery, and his teaching was the only happiness of my life. And now, sir, question me no further, I entreat you."

"Very well, then, I will ask no more; and I will trust you."

"I thank you, sir, for your generous confidence."

"And now I will tell you my plans for your future welfare," Sir Oswald continued, kindly. "I was thinking much of you while I breakfasted. You have a very magnificent voice; and it is upon that voice you must depend for the future. Are you fond of music?"

"I am very fond of it."

There was little in the girl's words, but the tone in which they were spoken, the look of inspiration which lighted up the speaker's face, convinced Sir Oswald that she was an enthusiast.

"Do you play the piano?"

"A little; by ear."

"And you know nothing of the science of music?"

"Nothing."

"Then you will have a great deal to learn before you can make any profitable use of your voice. And now I will tell you what I shall do.

I shall make immediate arrangements for placing you in a first-class boarding school in London, or the neighbourhood of London. There you will complete your education, and there you will receive lessons from the best masters in music and singing, and devote the greater part of your time to the cultivation of your voice. It will be known that you are intended for the career of a professional singer, and every facility will be afforded you for study. You will remain in this establishment for two years, and at the end of that time I shall place you under the tuition of some eminent singer, who will complete your musical education, and enable you to appear as a public singer. All the rest will depend on your own industry and perseverance."

"And I should be a worthless creature if I were not more industrious than ever any woman was before!" exclaimed Honoria. "Oh, sir, how can I find words to thank you?"

"You have no need to thank me. I am a rich man, with neither wife nor child upon whom to waste my money. Besides, if you find the obligation too heavy to bear, you can repay me when you become a distinguished singer."

"I will work hard to hasten that day, sir," answered the girl, earnestly.

Sir Oswald had spoken thus lightly, in order to set his _protegee_ more at her ease. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and moving to the window to give her time to recover herself, stood for some minutes looking out into the market-place. Then he came back to his easy chair by the fire, and addressed her once more.

"I shall post up to town this afternoon to make the arrangements of which I have spoken," he said; "you, in the meantime, will remain under the care of Mrs. Willet, to whom I shall entrust the purchase of your wardrobe. When that has been prepared, you will come straight to my house in Arlington Street, whence I will myself conduct you to the school I may have chosen as your residence. Remember, that from to-day you will begin a new life. Ah, by the bye, there is one other question I must ask. You have no relations, no associates of the past who are likely to torment you in the future?"

"None. I have no relations who would dare approach me, and I have always held myself aloof from all associates."

"Good, then the future lies clear before you. And now you can return to Mrs. Willet. I will see her presently, and make all arrangements for your comfort."

Honoria curtseyed to her benefactor, and left the room in silence. Her every gesture and her every tone were those of a lady. Sir Oswald looked after her with wonder, as she disappeared from the apartment.

The landlady of the "Star" was very much surprised when Sir Oswald Eversleigh requested her to keep the ballad-singer in her charge for a week, and to purchase for her a simple but thoroughly complete wardrobe.

"And now," said Sir Oswald, "I confide her to you for a week, Mrs.

Willet, at the end of which time I hope her wardrobe will be ready. I will write you a cheque for--say fifty pounds. If that is not enough, you can have more."

"Lor' bless you, Sir Oswald, it's more than enough to set her up like a duchess, in a manner of speaking," answered the landlady; and then, seeing Sir Oswald had no more to say to her, she curtseyed and withdrew.

Sir Oswald Eversleigh's carriage was at the door of the "Star" at noon; and at ten minutes after twelve the baronet was on his way back to town.

He visited a great many West-end boarding-schools before he found one that satisfied him in every particular. Had his _protegee_ been his daughter, or his affianced wife, he could not have been more difficult to please. He wondered at his own fastidiousness.

"I am like a child with a new toy," he thought, almost ashamed of the intense interest he felt in this unknown girl.

At last he found an establishment that pleased him; a noble old mansion at Fulham, surrounded by splendid grounds, and presided over by two maiden sisters. It was a thoroughly aristocratic seminary, and the ladies who kept it knew how to charge for the advantages of their establishment. Sir Oswald assented immediately to the Misses Beaumonts'

terms, and promised to bring the expected pupil in less than a week's time.

"The young lady is a relation, I presume, Sir Oswald?" said the elder Miss Beaumont.

"Yes," answered the baronet; "she is--a distant relative."

If he had not been standing with his back to the light, the two ladies might have seen a dusky flush suffuse his face as he pronounced these words. Never before had he told so deliberate a falsehood. But he had feared to tell the truth.

"They will never guess her secret from her manner," he thought; "and if they question her, she will know how to baffle their curiosity."

On the very day that ended the stipulated week, Honoria Milford made her appearance in Arlington Street. Sir Oswald was in his library, seated in an easy-chair before the fire-place, with a book in his hand, but with no power to concentrate his attention to its pages. He was sitting thus when the door was opened, and a servant announced--

"Miss Milford!"

Sir Oswald rose from his chair, and beheld an elegant young lady, who approached him with a graceful timidity of manner. She was simply dressed in gray merino, a black silk mantle, and a straw bonnet, trimmed with white ribbon. Nothing could have been more Quaker-like than the simplicity of this costume, and yet there was an elegance about the wearer which the baronet had seldom seen surpassed.

He rose to welcome her.

"You have just arrived in town?" he said.

"Yes, Sir Oswald; a hackney-coach brought me here from the coach-office."

"I am very glad to see you," said the baronet, holding out his hand, which Honoria Milford touched lightly with her own neatly gloved fingers; "and I am happy to tell you that I have secured you a home which I think you will like."

"Oh, Sir Oswald, you are only too good to me. I shall never know how to thank you."

"Then do not thank me at all. Believe me, I desire no thanks. I have done nothing worthy of gratitude. An influence stronger than my own will has drawn me towards you; and in doing what I can to befriend you, I am only giving way to an impulse which I am powerless to resist."

The girl looked at her benefactor with a bewildered expression, and Sir Oswald interpreted the look.

"Yes," he said, "you may well be astonished by what I tell you. I am astonished myself. There is something mysterious in the interest which you have inspired in my mind."

Although the baronet had thought continually of his _protegee_ during the past week, he had never asked himself if there might not be some simple and easy solution possible for this bewildering enigma. He had never asked himself if it were not just within the limits of possibility that a man of fifty might fall a victim to that fatal fever called love.