irl?" a voice asked back of
her. Maida turned. Mrs. Lathrop had come into the room.

Maida arose immediately from her chair. "We stayed in Rome two
months," she said.

"Indeed. And where else did you go?"

"London, Paris, Florence and Venice."

"Do you know these other pictures?" Mrs. Lathrop asked. "I've been
collecting photographs of Italian churches."

Maida went about identifying the places with little cries of joy.
"Ara Coeli--I saw in there the little wooden bambino who cures sick
people. It's so covered with bracelets and rings and lockets and
pins and chains that grateful people have given it that it looks as
if it were dressed in jewels. The bambino's such a darling little
thing with such a sweet look in its face. That's St. Agnes outside
the wall--I saw two dear little baby lambs blessed on the altar there
on St. Agnes's day. One was all covered with red garlands and the
other with green. Oh, they were such sweethearts! They were going to
use the fleece to make some garment for the pope. That's Santa Maria
della Salute--they call it Santa Maria della _Volute_ instead of
_Salute_ because it's all covered with volutes." Maida smiled
sunnily into Mrs. Lathrop's face as if expecting sympathy with this
architectural joke.

But Mrs. Lathrop did not smile. She looked a little staggered. She
studied Maida for a long time out of her shrewd, light eyes.

"Whose family did you travel with?" she asked at last.

Maida felt a little embarrassed. If Mrs. Lathrop asked her certain
questions, it would place her in a very uncomfortable position. On
the one hand, Maida could not tell a lie. On the other, her father
had told her to tell nobody that she was his daughter.

"The family of Mr. Jerome Westabrook," she said at last.

"Oh!" It was the "oh" of a person who is much impressed. "'Buffalo'
Westabrook?" Mrs. Lathrop asked.

"Yes."

"Did your grandmother, Mrs. Flynn, go with you?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Lathrop continued to look very hard at Maida. Her eyes wandered
over the little blue frock--simple but of the best materials--over the
white "tire" of a delicate plaided nainsook, trimmed with
Valenciennes lace, the string of blue Venetian beads, the soft,
carefully-fitted shoes.

"Mr. Westabrook has a little girl, hasn't he?" Mrs. Lathrop said.

Maida felt extremely uncomfortable now. But she looked Mrs. Lathrop
straight in the eye. "Yes," she answered.

"About your age?"

"Yes."

"She is an invalid, isn't sh