d. "You can take care of yourself. I can trust
you."

"I told you that I was afraid of Wingrave," she reminded him. "I can
take care of myself as a rule--and I do--as you know. I have elected to
be one of the unfashionables in that respect. But to ask Wingrave for
money is more than I dare do."

"Then I shall ask him myself," Barrington declared.

She picked up her gloves and turned to leave the room.

"I should prefer even that," she said.

GUARDIAN AND WARD

"Up to the present, then," Wingrave remarked, "the child has no idea as
to who has been responsible for the charge of her?"

"No idea at all, Sir Wingrave," the lawyer declared. "Your wishes have
been strictly carried out, most strictly. She imagines that it is some
unknown connection of her father. But, as I explained to you in my
letter, she has recently exhibited a good deal of curiosity in the
matter. She is--er--a young lady of considerable force of character for
her years, and her present attitude--as I explained in my letter--is a
trifle difficult."

Wingrave was sitting in the lawyer's own chair. Mr. Pengarth, who was a
trifle nervous, preferred to stand.

"She shows, I think, a certain amount of ingratitude in forcing this
journey and explanation upon me," Wingrave declared coldly. "It should
have been sufficient for her that her benefactor preferred to remain
anonymous."

"I regret, Sir Wingrave, that I must disagree with you," Mr. Pengarth
answered boldly. "Miss Juliet, Miss Lundy I should say, is a young lady
of character--and--er--some originality of disposition. She is a great
favorite with everyone around here."

Wingrave remained silent. He had the air of one not troubling to reply
to what he considered folly. Through the wide open window floated in the
various sounds of the little country town, the rumbling of heavy carts
passing along the cobbled streets, the shrill greetings of neighbors and
acquaintances meeting upon the sidewalk. And then the tinkling bell of a
rubber-tired cart pulling up outside, and a clear girlish voice speaking
to some one of the passers-by.

Wingrave betrayed as much surprise as it was possible for him to show
when at last she stood with outstretched hand before him. He had only an
imperfect recollection of an ill-clad, untidy-looking child, with pale
tear-stained cheeks, and dark unhappy eyes. The march of the years had
been a thing whose effects he had altogether underestimated. The girl
who stood