I should have noticed that before anything else. What kind
of a girl is she? Is she pretty?"

"I don't know. She isn't ugly, I should say. I wasn't particularly
interested in her looks. The fact that she was at all was enough; I
haven't gotten over that yet. What are we going to do with her? Or are
we going to do anything? Those are the questions I should like to have
answered. For heaven's sake, Hephzy, don't talk about her personal
appearance. There she is and here are we. What are we going to do?"

Hephzy shook her head. "I don't know, Hosy," she admitted. "I don't
know, I'm sure. This is--this is--Oh, didn't I tell you we were
SENT--sent by Providence!"

I was silent. If we had been "sent," as she called it, I was far from
certain that Providence was responsible. I was more inclined to place
the responsibility in a totally different quarter.

"I think," she continued, "I think you'd better tell me the whole thing
all over again, Hosy. Tell it slow and don't leave out a word. Tell me
what sort of place she was in and what she said and how she looked, as
near as you can remember. I'll try and pay attention; I'll try as hard
as I can. It'll be a job. All I can think of now is that
to-morrow mornin'--only to-morrow mornin'--I'm going to see Little
Frank--Ardelia's Little Frank."

I complied with her request, giving every detail of my afternoon's
experience. I reread the letter, and handed it to her, that she might
read it herself. I described Mrs. Briggs and what I had seen of Mrs.
Briggs' lodging-house. I described Miss Morley as best I could, dark
eyes, dark hair and the look of weakness and frailty. I repeated our
conversation word for word; I had forgotten nothing of that. Hephzy
listened in silence. When I had finished she sighed.

"The poor thing," she said. "I do pity her so."

"Pity her!" I exclaimed. "Well, perhaps I pity her, too, in a way. But
my pity and yours don't alter the situation. She doesn't want pity. She
doesn't want help. She flew at me like a wildcat when I asked if she was
ill. Her personal affairs, she says, are not ours; she doesn't want our
acquaintance or our friendship. She has gotten some crazy notion in
her head that you and I and Uncle Barnabas have cheated her out of
an inheritance, and she wants that! Inheritance! Good Lord! A fine
inheritance hers is! Daughter of the man who robbed us of everything we
had."

"I know--I know. But SHE doesn't know, does she, Hosy. Her father mus