After that Mr. Parmalee and Miss Silver met frequently.  In her walks to the village it got to be the regular thing for the American to become her escort.

He was rather clever at pencil-drawing, and made numerous sketches of the house, and took the likenesses of all the servants.  He even set up a photographic place down in the village, and announced himself ready to “take” the whole population at “half a dollar” a head.

“There’s nothing like making hay while the sun shines,” remarked Mr. Parmalee to himself.  “I may as well do a little stroke of business, to keep my hand in, while I wait for my lady.  There ain’t no telling how this little speculation of mine may turn out, after all.”

So the weeks went by, and every Thursday found the American exploring the house.  He was a curious study to Sybilla as he went along, his hands invariably in his pockets, his hat pushed to the back of his head, whistling softly and meditatively.

Every day she became more convinced he knew something of Harrie Hunsden’s American antecedents, and every day she grew more gracious.  But if Mr. Parmalee had his secrets, he knew how to keep them.

“Can he ever have been a lover of hers in New York?” Sybilla asked herself.  “I know she was there two years at school.”

But it seemed improbable.  Harrie could not have been over thirteen or fourteen at the time.

The honey-moon month passed—­the January day that was to bring the happy pair home arrived.  In the golden sunset of a glorious winter day the carriage rolled up the avenue, and Sir Everard handed Lady Kingsland out.

The long line of servants were drawn up in the hall, with Mrs. Comfit and Miss Silver at their head.  High and happy as a young prince, Sir Everard strode in among them, with his bride on his arm.  And she—­Sybilla Silver—­set her teeth as she looked at her, so gloriously radiant in her wedded bliss.

Mr. Parmalee, lounging among the trees, caught one glimpse of that exquisite face as it flashed by.

“By George! ain’t she a stunner?  Not a bit like t’other one, with her black eyes and tarry hair.  I’ve seen quadroon girls, down South, whiter than Miss Silver.  And, what’s more, she isn’t a bit like—­like the lady in London, that she’d ought to look like.”

Sybilla saw very little of Sir Everard or his bride that evening.  But the next morning, at breakfast, she broached the subject of Mr. Parmalee.

“Wants to take photographic views of the place, does he?” said Sir Everard, carelessly.  “Is he too timid to speak for himself, Sybilla?”

“Mr. Parmalee is not in the least bashful.  He merely labors under the delusion that a petition proffered by me can not fail.”

“Oh, the fellow is welcome!” the baronet said, indifferently.  “Let him amuse himself, by all means.  If the views are good, I will have some myself.”

Mr. Parmalee presented himself in the course of the day.