hat, for
Dr. _Kirby_ looks upon him, as I may say, medically."

"Good heavens! does he want to dissect him?" said Winthrop.

Mrs. Thorne gave her guarded little laugh. "No; but he says that he is
such a perfect specimen, physically, of the Anglo-Saxon at his best. He
may be; I am sure I am willing. But we are not all ethnologists, I
suppose, and something more definite in the way of a background than
ancient Saxony, or even Anglia, would be, I think, desirable, when, as I
remarked before, one is seeing so much of a person."

There was a short silence, which Winthrop did not break. Then he rose,
and took up his hat and whip; he had been paying one of his afternoon
visits at the old house. "Don't be uneasy," he said, in the
half-protecting tone which he often adopted now when speaking to the
little mistress of East Angels; "if you are seeing much of this Mr.
Spenser, you and your daughter, you must remember that you are also
seeing much of others as well; of Manuel Ruiz, of young Torres, even of
myself; there's safety in numbers."

"Mr. Spenser is not in the least like any of you; that is my trouble,"
Mrs. Thorne declared, with emphasis. "I do not mean," she added, with
her anxious particularity, "that _you_ are in the least like Manuel or
Adolfo, Mr. Winthrop; of course not."

Winthrop did not reply to this beyond a smile. He took leave, and went
towards the door.

Mrs. Thorne's gaze followed him; then with her quick step she crossed
the room, and stopped him on the threshold. "Mr. Winthrop, do _you_ like
to see my little girl showing such an interest in this Lucian Spenser?"
Her voice was almost a whisper, but her bright eyes met his bravely.

For a moment he returned her gaze. Then, "I like it immensely," he said,
and went down the stairs.

Soon after this, however, there was what Mrs. Thorne called "definite"
information about Lucian Spenser in circulation in Gracias; it was even
very definite. He might have the background of honorable grandfathers
which Mr. Moore attributed to him, but for the foreground there was only
himself, himself without any of the adjuncts of wealth, or a fixed
income of any kind, even the smallest. He was a civil engineer
(apparently not a very industrious one); he had whatever emoluments that
profession could bring in to a man who painted a good many pictures in
water-colors; and he had nothing more. This he told himself, with the
utmost frankness.

"Nothing more?" commented Mrs.