was myself!"

"You," cried Enid--"you that little gipsy girl! I remember that I could
not understand why I was sent away." Then she stopped short and looked
aside, fearing lest she had said something that might hurt.

"I know," said Cynthia. "Your aunt--Miss Vane--was shocked to find you
talking to me, for she knew who I was. She sent you back to the house;
but before you went you asked Mr. Lepel to be good to me. He
promised--and he kept his word. Although I did not know it until long
afterwards, it was he who sent me to school for many years, and had me
trained and cared for in every possible way. I did not even know his
name; but I treasured up my memories of that one afternoon when I saw
him at Beechfield all through the years that I spent at school. I knew
your name; and I kept the shilling that you gave me, in remembrance of
your goodness. I have worn it ever since. See--it is round my neck now,
and I shall never part from it. And do you think that, after all these
years of gratitude and tender memory of your kindness, I would do you a
wrong so terrible as that of which Mrs. Vane accuses me? I would die
first! I love Hubert; but, if I may say so, I love you, Miss Vane, too,
humbly and from a distance--and I will never willingly give you a
moment's pain. I will be guided by what you wish me to do. If you tell
me to leave the house this day, I will go, and never see him more. You
have the right to command, and I will obey."

"But why," said Enid slowly, "did you not think of all this earlier?
Why, when you were older, did you not remember that you--you had no
right----"

She could not finish her sentence.

"Because of his relationship to you, and his engagement to you?" said
Cynthia. "Oh, I see that I must tell you more! Miss Vane, I was
ungrateful enough to run away from the school at which he placed me, as
soon as my story became accidently known to my schoolfellows. I was then
befriended by an old musician, who taught me how to sing and got me an
engagement on the stage. When he died, I was reduced to great poverty. I
heard of Mr. Lepel at the theatre. He wrote plays, and had become
acquainted with my face and my stage-name; but he did not know that I
was the girl whom he had sent to school; and I did not know that he was
the gentleman whom I had seen with you at Beechfield. His face sometimes
seemed vaguely familiar to me; but I could not imagine why."

"And he did not remember you?"

"Not in the least.