"You shall have the money; all of it!" broke forth Claudia, with alarmed and petulant vehemence. "But for mercy's sake, let us settle the thing at once? Do you consent to take the child, and to bring him up as your own son, on these terms? I will give you a cheque for two thousand pounds, and you shall be paid all the interest for the other three until Claude is twenty-one.

will content you!"

Surely that

Marie controlled herself by a supreme effort. The word "content" was wholly inadequate, she felt, to express her emotions of transcendent satisfaction and elation. Never, for a moment, had she anticipated such an issue as this from the application to Miss Estcourt! Her delighted amazement at her own good fortune was only equalled by contemptuous astonishment at the folly of her companion in parting so readily with so great a suni.

"But yes, indeed, Mademoiselle, I consent with a good heart," she responded in a quiet voice, but with sparkling eyes. "Mademoiselle is very generous; but she will not repent it. It will be always a satisfaction to her to reflect that her child is so well provided for, and that his new parents will be able to bring him up in comfort and to have him educated comme il faut. As for the money-Mademoiselle, I hope, will not miss it. Her husband doubtless will be rich?" She waited for a moment, but Claudia only replied by a nod. "The bargain, then, it is made," she went on. "The dear little Claude, he is now mine, and I will be a good mother to him always. That I promised to his father, and Mademoiselle may rest satisfied of it. But will it be wished that we report, from time to time, concerning his health and welfare?"

"Certainly not!

Most decidedly not!" exclaimed Claudia, with trenchant irritation. "I never wish to hear anything either of the child or of you again. The arrangement is that you are to teach him to believe you are his parents, M. Vandeleur and yourself. The money he is to have will be put in trust for him as Claude Vandeleur. You must understand that I shall never again own to any connection or interest in him."

"Yes, yes, I comprehend entirely. All shall be exactly as Mademoiselle desires. And now, will you that I call my husband? Or shall I first bring the child? You would like to see him, and to bid him farewell ?"

"I don't know," hesitated Claudia. "Yes, bring him to me for a few moments."

CHAPTER XI.

GOOD-BYE FOR EVER.

WHEN Madame Vandeleur had left the house, Claudia sprang to her feet, and began (as was her habit under the stress of any great excitement) to pace to and fro over the boarded floor of the homely farm-house kitchen. For three years she had been a mother, but as yet, she had never consciously looked upon her child. At her own imperative request, he had been taken from her on the day of his birth, and, until the present moment, she had neither had the opportunity nor the desire to see him. Did she desire it now? Claudia scarcely knew whether she did or no, so mixed and paradoxical were her sentiments. But unquestionably she was very much agitated at the thought of this meeting, which was to be the first and, as she intended, the last between herself and the poor little fellow whom she had, as it were, bartered away to another woman. With a prevision that the interview would prove a trying one to her nerves, she hoped that it might take place without witnesses. This idea reminded her of Ella Thorne; and going to the door, Claudia peeped forth, meaning to assure her friend that she should not be kept much longer waiting.

Rather to her surprise, however, Ella was no longer seated on the well where she had left her, neither could Claudia see her anywhere.

The fact was that, growing weary of solitude and inaction, Ella had wandered off for a little stroll, and coming presently to the wood at the back of the house, she had there fallen in with Paul Vandeleur and the two children.

Intensely abhorring the situation in which she found herself as the confidant of Claudia's miserable secret, Ella had, nevertheless, aided and abetted her friend's schemes to the extent of lending her the support of her company upon the present expedition. Also she had helped, not passively but actively, in another way-viz., in the securing of Claudia's money to Claudia's boy-and she meant to give still further assistance in the same direction. For, seeing that the latter was bent, with such headstrong determination, upon involving herself still further in the meshes of duplicity and wrong, this seemed to Ella the only mode in which something of justice could be done. In her idea, the very least thing that Claudia could do in the way of atonement to her injured child was this relinquishment of her uncle's legacy in his behalf. Already, in taking measures towards the securing of this object, Ella felt, not without reason, that she had

become tarred with the pitch in which she was so reluctantly dabbling. Torn one way by her own natural uprightness, and another by mistaken notions as to the claims of friendship and fidelity, the poor girl's conscience was far from at ease respecting her own share in these proceedings, and she marked her disapprobation of them in such manner as she could; as, for instance, in refusing to be present this afternoon at the interview with Madame Vandeleur.

Turning away from the door in front of the house, after fruitlessly glancing around in search of her friend, Claudia caught the sound of a second door being opened and closed, and, in another moment, Madame Vandeleur appeared leading a little boy by the hand.

"Le voici, Mademoiselle; this is our Claude!" she announced. "Go, my child, and speak with the pretty lady." And loosening her hand, she gave him a gentle push forward, then adding, "I will leave you for a short time, Mademoiselle," retired, with a courteous and graceful bow, to watch the interview from an adjoining closet, through a hole made by the removal of a knot of wood in the boarded partition.

Meantime, sinking upon a chair, Claudia held out her hands with a silent gesture of invitation. The child approached, betraying no fear, but, on the contrary, regarding her with a look of great interest and admiration.

"Ah! comme tu est belle!" he exclaimed, clasping his little hand round her ungloved fingers, and smiling with unabashed delight into her face.

A strange sensation-a feeling as of sudden stricture about the heart, and then of an equally sudden expansion of that organ-overtook Miss Estcourt. Something in the sound of that ringing infantile voice, in the touch of those soft baby-hands, seemed to thrill to the very centre of her being. She stooped and lifted the child to her knee, pushed back his hair, and kissed him on the brow and cheek. "Can you speak English, Claude?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "But yes, only I must not," he answered in French. "You must not! Why, dear?" she inquired with surprise.

"My papa does not allow me to speak English to anyone but his own self," babbled the child. "Poor papa, he went to sleep, oh, so fast! And they put him into a hole in the ground, because nobody could awaken him. But Louis thinks he will have got out of the hole by the time we go back home; and if he hasn't, we shall take some spades and dig him out, Louis and I, because I want him so much."

Claudia returned no answer to this perfectly serious observation. She was scrutinising the little fellow's features to see in how far he

resembled the father of whom he was speaking-the man whom she had so bitterly disliked, and whom, even now that he lay in his grave, she could not bring herself to pardon for having been to her the cause of so much unhappiness. But though, as a result of her study, she found the resemblance between the two very striking (for Claude had inherited poor Hubert's dark eyes and handsome high-bred lineaments, modified, of course, by his age), she could not feel any repugnance to the child. Yet, before she had seen him, Claudia had been sensible of entertaining very decided repugnance towards this innocent offspring of her unhappy and deeply-regretted union. But, at sight of his pretty baby-face, at touch of his dimpled little hands, her aversion had suddenly melted away, and something of the natural maternal feeling had been born within her. Half frightened by this new, unexpected emotion, this strange softening and yearning of the heart, Claudia hastened to break the spell of silence.

"You used to speak English, then, with your papa sometimes, Claude?" she questioned.

"Not sometimes, but very often," he replied. "We used to talk about my mamma in English."

66 About your mamma?" echoed Claudia faintly.

"Yes, I have a mamma, and she is beautiful-belle comme tu— and my papa says she is good, too. But I don't think she can be, because she doesn't love him and she doesn't love me, and it makes him

cry to talk about her. Oh!...” He paused suddenly and made a little gesture of distress, then broke himself into tears.

"What is the matter, my darling?" demanded Claudia, moved by his grief, but, at the same time, greatly disquieted by his remarks.

"Oh! I ought not to have said that! Papa never allows that I speak of her, of my mamma, only to him alone, and in English. But I forgot, and . . . and I never forgot before," he sobbed.

"Never mind this time, dear. Don't cry!" soothed Claudia. "But, listen, Claude; you must never, never, never say anything like this again to anyone. It is all a mistake. You have no mamma, my poor little fellow, you have never had any mamma, but Madame Vandeleur. Don't you-don't you call her 'ma mère'?”

Claude knitted his small brows in perplexity.

"Yes, but . . . "he stammered, "but also I have a mamman, only I must not talk of her-is it not true?"

"No, no! you must forget all that, Claude. Little boys can only have one mamman, and .:. and that was your mamma who brought you in to see me." Claudia's voice shook, and she ended the sentence with a sob.

Claude looked up startled. He was by no means a shy child, and he had experienced no alarm on being left alone with this stranger-rather, indeed, he had felt singularly attracted by her. The dawn of æsthetic emotion in the little fellow was proved by his delight in her delicate beauty and dainty apparel. Even now, though startled, he was not alarmed.

"Qu'as tu, donc? Tu vas pleurer?" he asked, in his pretty prattling French, putting up his hand to stroke her face.

All at once Claudia broke down. She caught the child to her breast, and began to weep softly, straining him closer and closer, and raining kisses, the while, on his round, velvety cheeks and rosy lips.

Madame Vandeleur, gazing on this scene from her unsuspected loophole, grew alarmed. Was it possible that Miss Estcourt might, after all, repent of her bargain? Marie's own maternal feelings were so strong-she knew so well the potency of caressing little fingers, of chubby baby-arms clasped around a mother's neck (as those of the three-year-old Claude were now clasped round the neck of her visitor) that a sickening fear began to lay hold of her respecting the security of the golden future which had just opened before her fascinated eyes.

Supposing the young lady were to change her mind-to claim the child, and take him away, and upset all those glorious arrangements? Marie quaked with uneasiness. She had as little anticipated, as Claudia herself had done, an effect of this sort from an introduction of the boy. She had judged "Mademoiselle" to be a person wholly without sensibility-and behold she was all melted in tears, fondling and moaning over her disowned child, as though already he had won a place in her heart! Marie felt that it was high time to go in and put an end to that interview. Accordingly, creeping on tiptoe to the back-door, she opened and closed it noisily-as though re-entering the house by that way-and presented herself to Claudia. "Pardon, Mademoiselle, have I come too soon?" she inquired. “I was in fear that the little one might be troublesome to you."

Claudia hastily dried her eyes.

"No; he has not been troublesome," she answered. "But I am glad you have come. Take him away, Madame, please take him away before your husband or my friend comes in. I . . . I . . .” She caught her breath for a moment to prevent a fresh outburst. "Give me one more kiss, Claude, and then go, go to thy mother. Good-bye, my darling," she murmured in her own tongue. "Goodbye for ever! Good-bye for ever!"

She loosened her embrace, but the little fellow clung to her with