g, Arnold," she said. "Really, you looked
too funny in that terrible cart. What an odd meeting, isn't it? Have you
a few minutes to spare?"

"I believe," I answered, "that I cannot get away from this place till
the evening. Shall we go in and sit down?"

She shook her head.

"The inn-parlour is too stuffy," she answered. "I was obliged to come
out myself for some fresh air. Let us walk up the street."

I paid for my conveyance, and we strolled along the broad sidewalk. Lady
Delahaye seemed inclined to thrust the onus of commencing our
conversation upon me.

"I presume," I said, "that we are here with the same object?"

She glanced at me curiously.

"Indeed!" she remarked. "Then tell me why you came."

"To discover that child's parentage, if possible," I answered promptly.
"I want to discover who her friends are, who really has the right to
take charge of her."

"You perplex me, Arnold," she said thoughtfully. "I do not understand
your position in the matter. I always looked upon you as a somewhat
indolent person. Yet I find you now taking any amount of trouble in a
matter which really does not concern you at all. Whence all this
good-nature?"

"Lady Delahaye----"

"Eileen," she interrupted softly.

"Lady Delahaye," I answered firmly. "You must forgive me if I remind you
that I have no longer the right to call you by any other name. I am not
good-natured, and I am afraid that I am still indolent. Nevertheless, I
am interested in this child, and I intend to do my utmost to prevent her
returning to this place."

"I am still in the dark," she said, looking at me curiously. "She is
nothing to you. A more unsuitable home for her than with three young men
I cannot imagine. You seem to want to keep her there. Why? She is a
child to-day, it is true--but in little more than a year's time she will
be a woman. The position then for you will be full of embarrassments."

"I find the position now," I answered, "equally embarrassing. We can
only give the child up to you, send her back to the convent, or keep her
ourselves. Of the three we prefer to keep her."

"You seem to have a great distaste for the convent," she remarked, "but
that is because you are not a Catholic, and you do not understand these
things. She would at least be safe there, and in time, I think, happy."

We were at the head of the village street now, upon a slight eminence. I
pointed backwards to the prison-like building, standing grim and
desola