was your father? Was he Frank Blunt? Eh?
eh?"

"I believe so, sir," Lily answered.

"You believe so," he repeated; "you
believe so. Don't you know who your father
was?"

"I have been told that my father's name was
Francis Blunt."

"You have been told so, and don't know of
your own knowledge. That's odd—very odd.
And how did you come here, my dear? How
did a Blunt come to be a servant in a hotel?"

"I am not exactly a servant, sir," Lily
replied.

"Not exactly a servant!" he said. "Then
what are you? I don't understand it; it's all a
mystery, a puzzle. Here, Franz, Franz, Franz
Stimm, you rascal, come here."

It was clear that Franz Stimm was a party to
Constant's plot, for he entered the room
immediately his name was called.

"Come here, sir," said the invalid; "do you
know this young lady, or anything about her?"

"Yah mein signor, of course I knows dat
young leddi; she is the liddle cal, ver mooch
grown big, vat we see in de steam-boat. Ah,"
the courier continued, addressing Lily; "you
forget me; but I not forget your preddy face."

"I have not forgotten you," said Lily; "you
were very kind to me."

"Vat," cried Franz, "you remember de
joggolate, eh?"

"What do you know about the young lady,
Stimm?" the invalid asked.

"Mein generale," said the courier, "I know
dat she is ver preddy cal; but Monsieur
Constant knows all about her fadder and her modder,
de andsome dame you know, dat loog like de
diger in de steam-boat."

"Then, let Monsieur Constant attend me,"
said the invalid.

Monsieur Constant was not far off, and Stimrn
returned with him instantly. Monsieur
Constant explained all to the invalid in a few words.
Lily was the daughter of Francis Blunt.

"And I," said the invalid, raising himself
and holding out his hands to Lily, "I am
George Blunt, your father's brother, and your
uncle. Let me be your uncle and your father
both, for poor Frank's sake, and for our mother's
sake; you are the very image of her."

And so Lily was adopted by the rich old
nabob of Cutchapore, a widower without chick
or child of his own to leave his millions to.

CHAPTER LIX. THE BROKEN IDOL.

LILY was now no longer Quite Alone. Her
uncle idolised her, and was never tired of
smoothing her beautiful brown hair and gazing
with childish rapture at her lovely blue eyes.

George Blunt had not brought much liver
home with him from India, but he had managed
to preserve his heart. The former organ he had
exercised overmuch, the latter not at all. In
the pursuit of money-getting he had put his
heart aside altogether, preserved it, as it were,
in spirits of wine in a sealed bottle. And now,
when he had done with rupee grubbing, he
opened the bottle and found his heart in a fine
state of preservation.

He was quite foolish in his demonstrations of
affection towards his pretty niece. He could
not bear her to be out of his sight for a moment.
He fondled and patted her as a child plays with
a doll; he said inconceivably silly things to her
in praise of her good looks, such childish
nonsensical things that Lily quite blushed for him.
If she had been a doll he would certainly never
have rested until he had taken out and examined
those lovely blue eyes which he was always
looking at with so much wonder and delight.

Constant was jealous of the old man. So
was Franz Stimm. Constant almost repented
of having brought Lily and her uncle together.
The good-hearted courier went about regretting
that the "preddy liddle cal" had outgrown her
taste for joggolate. He took courage one day,
and respectfully suggested joggolate. Lily took
some which the courier offered her, and thanked
him with many smiles, putting the sweetmeat in
her pocket. Franz was quite hurt because she
did not eat it there and then.

"Ah," he muttered to himself, "she is too
big leddi now for joggolate; she is afraid of her
stomjacks; but the liddle cal is nevare afraid of
her stomjacks; oh no."

George Blunt had heard the history of his
brother Frank's career from Constant, and
reproached himself bitterly for not having been at
hand to help him in his distress and misery. He
now heard from Lily the history of her sad life,
and the pitiful story moved him to tears. She
told him all, not even omitting the cause of her
flight from Madame de Kergolay's—her passion
for Edgar Greyfaunt.

"He is not worthy of you, my dear, can't be
worthy of you," he said, "to treat you as he has
done. But you shall be as good as he, or any
of them; the blood of the Blunts runs in your
veins; and the money of George Blunt shall
chink in your pocket, and I'll warrant you'll have
a score of fellows at your feet in no time."

The Indian nabob, vain of his ancient lineage,
and no less proud of his wealth, was deeply hurt
at the idea of his brother's child being slighted
and looked down upon; and he resolved that
Lily should not only vindicate her position, but
also glorify the family name. He had nothing
to show in his own person (for he was a mere
bag of bones) for the immense riches which he
had acquired in India. His poor mummy of a
body, wrapped in the richest robes, and decked
with the finest gems, was but an object of pity.

Lily rose upon the old man's vision like a star
in the dark. He found a beautiful idol upon
which to hang his gold and his pearls—one who
would wear them worthily, and command
homage to his wealth. He loaded her with
presents, dressed her in the richest robes, decked
her with the rarest gems, engaged for her the
handsomest suite of apartments in the hotel,
bought her a brougham and a saddle-horse, and
appointed a maid and a groom specially to attend
upon her. The poor, friendless, lonely girl, so