"That _is_ unfortunate. I have come a long way to see him. I _must_ see him. When will he be back?"

"This afternoon or this evening, I hope; but possibly not until to-morrow morning. But won't you come in and rest a little?"

The man gave his horse to a boy and walked slowly up the steps. For some moments he made no reply, and at last, looking at her in an abstracted kind of way, apparently without really seeing her, muttered:

"Well, that _is_ awkward!" He paused again, deep in thought, and, seeming to arrive at some conclusion, he said, "Miss Hardy, I _must_ see your father; it is a matter almost of life and death, and I am almost certain to miss him if I follow him now. Will you allow me to wait until he returns?"

"I shall see Mr Whitton, my father's agent, at luncheon, and if he can put you up you are very welcome to stay."

The stranger bowed, inwardly a little amused perhaps at Mr Whitton's position in the matter.

Miss Hardy suggested that possibly he had not yet breakfasted, and as the surmise proved entirely correct he was left to entertain himself while she went off to give the necessary orders.

Breakfast over, the young man returned to the stoep, and in an enclosed portion of it discovered Miss Grace among the ferns and hot-house plants. For some minutes after the first few remarks he watched in silence, and then, as she paused to study the effect of a rearrangement in a small basket of ferns he asked quietly:

"Are you Miss Gracie?"

She looked up quickly, flushing a little, and then said coldly:

"Yes, I am Miss Hardy."

"I mean no impertinence, Miss Hardy. I asked if you are Miss Gracie because I heard of you by that name twelve years ago."

"Indeed! Then you are an old friend of my father's?"

"Well, yes, I believe he would consider me so. But I should have told you my name before this. Pardon the omission. Ansley it is--George Ansley."

"Ah--Mr Ansley! Yet I don't remember ever hearing him speak of you.

But be sure of this, if you were his friend then, you will be his friend now. He does not forget old friends. Let me see. Twelve years ago.

Those were the early days--those were his hard times when you knew him."

"Yes, he was down then--very down; and I am very glad he has prospered.

No man better deserved it."

The girl's eyes grew a little misty--this was her weak point. She looked up at him, saying simply: "Thank you."

Ansley smiled slightly, and said: "There was a photograph of you that he had then. A little girl in short dresses, a very serious, earnest-looking little girl--all eyes. I can remember wishing to see you then. I wanted to see if your eyes really looked like that. They _do_, you know. But, still, I can't imagine that you are his 'little girl.'"

Miss Grace laughed and blushed a good deal under the scrutiny and criticism, and suggested good-humouredly that if he would go with her she would show him the original photograph, and he could satisfy himself on that point.

From one of the drawing-room tables she took a folding frame made to hold two photographs, and pointing to the right-hand one, handed it to him. After a full minute's close inspection, Ansley looked up, smiling gravely at the girl.

"There is no mistaking it," he said; "that is the photograph. I would know it anywhere. It made a great impression on me when I first saw it on account of a little incident that was in a sort of way connected with it."

"What was that?"

As she asked the question he glanced from the photograph to the other side of the frame, where there was a little faded, old-fashioned Christmas card. As it caught his eye a half-suppressed exclamation escaped him, and, oblivious of the girl's presence, he drew the card out and read the writing on the back; and then, glancing out through the open window, he thought of how he had first seen it.

As Miss Grace looked at him, she saw that his brown sunburnt face looked a little lined and careworn. Under the dark moustache the mouth drooped rather sadly at the corners, and the eyes were large and sad too just now. She watched him for a little while, and then, interrupting his thought, said gently:

"Well, Mr Ansley, I am waiting to hear the incident of which I was the unconscious heroine."

"A thousand pardons. It was thinking of that very incident that made me forget your question. It cannot be an accident that those two cards are in the same frame. Of course, you must know the history?"

"Of course, _I_ do; but surely you cannot; why, the Christmas card it is impossible that you could have seen."

"No, not impossible, Miss Hardy. It was I who brought it to your father the night he found the diamonds!"

The girl stood before him, hands clasped, and amazed. Wonderingly she looked at him, and the more she looked the more she wondered. How utterly different from what she had fancied! In her mind's eye she had seen a tall, awkward youth, loose-jointed and rough, silent and stupid, and here was the real Simon Pure, tall and slight, certainly, but supple and well-knit, quiet and courteous.

"Well, this is wonderful!" she exclaimed at last in helpless amazement; and then her face flushed with generous enthusiasm. "Oh, Mr Ansley, you don't know what pleasure, what happiness this will be to my father!

You don't know how he has longed to find you. This will be the happiest Christmas he has ever spent."

"Do you really think he will be glad to see me?"

"Oh, you don't know him if you can ask such a question. But why did you never come to us before?"

"Because I never wanted his help before, and I could not have refused it. He is the only man in this world from whom I would ask help, and I have come to ask it now. It is no trifle. It will be the hardest task he has ever had."

"Whatever it is, Mr Ansley, if he can do it he will. I would pledge my life on that. He owes you much, and I owe you what I can perhaps never in all my life repay. At least, you will let us be your friends."

She extended both hands to him as she spoke. The soft firm touch of the girl's hands sent a pleasant tingle through him. It was genuine. It made him feel that this time he had fallen amongst friends. A feeling that he had never known in his life came over him, the feeling that there was a home where he would be always welcome, and that there were two people who would always be genuinely glad to see him.

The first surprise over, she made him recount most minutely every detail of that Christmas night. He told how the letter had been entrusted to him for delivery by the tipsy digger, and every little incident up to the finding of the diamonds.

"When we found the tin full," he said, "we were so excited that we thought very little of the boys. We searched them one by one and pa.s.sed them behind us. I had pa.s.sed the last, when I turned and found your father standing by me looking helpless and dazed, instead of guarding the door, as I thought he was doing. I looked round, and saw that the boys had bolted, so I took the packets we had found on them and put them down on the piece of oilskin with the tin. I thought it best then to leave him to himself, and as he stooped slowly to pick up the diamonds I stepped out of the hut and went home. I should have seen him the next day, I am certain, but when I got home I found my father and a digging friend mad with excitement about a new find some thirty miles off. We started for the place that night, and did not return for some months."

"But how was it you did not meet him even then?"

Ansley laughed, as he answered hesitatingly:

"Well, Miss Hardy, the fact is, I did often meet him; but I was a youngster then--very foolish, and sensitive, and proud in my silly boyish way, and though I knew well and often heard that he wanted to find me, I could not bring myself to go up to him and say, 'I am the man who saved your fortune for you.' It seemed to me I might as well have said, 'What do you mean to pay me?' I could not do it. And though I knew, too, that he could not possibly recognise me from the very imperfect view he had of me in the dark little tent, yet when I met him in camp I used to turn away from him and feel hurt and sick and sore that he did not know me. Then a little later, as you know, he left Kimberley, and was away for a long, long time, and so it has been during twelve years. He has been much away, and so have I, and although I have often seen him, we have never actually met. Once in London I would have spoken to him. I was then, as I thought, a rich man, and I could afford to speak without fear of being misunderstood, but I missed him. I wish to G.o.d I had not, Miss Gracie; I wish I had met you both then. Nothing has gone well with me since. Bad luck has followed me and all connected with me since then. It is the last and worst stroke that has brought me here." He looked into the l.u.s.trous eyes and sympathetic face of the girl, and added, half playfully, half sadly: "I wish I had met you before; I believe you would have changed my luck. Do you know, I think you are one of those who bring good luck. You have a good influence--I can feel it."

"If I have,"--and the girl laughed brightly--"_I_ mean to exert it from this very moment. Firstly, then, you must get out of the blues.

Secondly, you must make up your mind to stay till my father returns; and thirdly, you will have to submit with the best grace possible to the infliction of my company while I show you the sights and do the honours of our home."

Whatever sacrifice of personal feelings Ansley may have made in the cause of gallantry was borne with Spartan fort.i.tude and concealed with admirable skill; in fact, a casual observer would have been inclined to think that he rather liked it.

If he was not very talkative and lively, he made up for it by being an admirable listener--one of those listeners whose very look is full of quiet and intense appreciation of all that is said. She was content to play the cicerone, and it pleased him too, and so the morning pa.s.sed.

She took him through the grounds, idling along amongst the summerhouses and trellised rose-walks, telling him of their life there, of their plans, of her own life during the years that had pa.s.sed since he first heard of her--in feet, all the reminiscences which form the heart and charm of the meeting, whether of old friends, or of the friends of old friends, or of those who have a common bond of sympathy wrought in a distant country or in a troublous time.

Luncheon over, Miss Grace may have thought she had answered the calls of hospitality, or she may have been tired of his company, or she may have thought that the change could do him good--it is hard to say. But, any way, she handed her guest over to the tender mercies of Whitton, and for the rest of the afternoon, instead of her talk and her company, Ansley had to put up with the agent and his dissertations on farm prospects for the coming season.

At about sundown, returning with Whitton from an inspection of the stables, Ansley saw with no little relief and satisfaction a slim figure in a grey dress moving about the lawn; and, leaving the estimable but prosy Whitton with the flimsiest of apologies, he joined his hostess.

"Really, Miss Hardy," he said, coming up to her, "I began to think you had vanished like the 'baseless fabric.' I was afraid you were going to leave me with Whitton for the evening as well."

"Did you not enjoy his company, Mr Ansley? I think him so entertaining and instructive," she added demurely.