came rumors that he was rapidly becoming wealthy; and of Patricia
Vartrey's death at her daughter's birth; and of the infant's health and
strength and beauty, and of her lavish upbringing,--a Frenchwoman,
Lichfield whispered, with absolutely nothing to do but attend upon the
child.

And then, little by little, a new generation sprang up, and, little by
little, the interest these rumors waked became more lax; and it was
brought about, at last, by the insidious transitions of time, that
Patricia Vartrey was forgotten in Lichfield. Only a few among the older
men remembered her; some of them yet treasured, as these fogies so often
do, a stray fan or an odd glove; and in bycorners of sundry
time-toughened hearts there lurked the memory of a laughing word or of a
glance or of some such casual bounty, that Patricia Vartrey had accorded
these hearts' owners when the world was young.

But Agatha Musgrave, likewise, remembered the orphan cousin who had
been reared with her. She had loved Patricia Vartrey; and, in due time,
she wrote to Patricia's daughter,--in stately, antiquated phrases that
astonished the recipient not a little,--and the girl had answered. The
correspondence flourished. And it was not long before Miss Musgrave had
induced her young cousin to visit Lichfield.

Colonel Rudolph Musgrave, be it understood, knew nothing of all this
until the girl was actually on her way. And now, she was to arrive that
afternoon, to domicile herself in his quiet house for two long
weeks--this utter stranger, look you!--and upset his comfort, ask him
silly questions, expect him to talk to her, and at the end of her visit,
possibly, present him with some outlandish gimcrack made of cardboard
and pink ribbons, in which she would expect him to keep his papers. The