"But it was not your niece! It was always you I wanted," said the Boy.
He lay back, in a deep wicker chair, under the old mulberry-tree. Hehad taken the precaution of depositing his cup and saucer on the softturf beneath his chair, because he knew that, under the stress ofsudden emotion, china—especially the best china—had a way of flyingoff his knee. And there was no question as to the exquisite quality ofthe china on the dainty tea-table over which Miss Christobel Charterispresided.
The Boy had watched her pouring the tea into those pretty rose-leafcups, nearly every afternoon during the golden two weeks just over. Heknew every movement of those firm white hands, so soft, yet so s