e had not yet been told their destination--her grace being
still undecided. Dowie's decent intelligence knew the methods of her
class and their value when perfectly applied. A nurse or a young lady's
maid knew only what she was told and did not ask questions.

But what she thought of most anxiously was Robin herself. His lordship
had given her no instructions. Part of his seeming to understand her was
that he had seemed to be sure that she would know what to say and what
to leave unsaid. She was glad of that because it left her free to think
the thing over and make her own quiet plans. She drew more than one
tremulous sigh as she thought it out. In the first place--little Miss
Robin seemed like a baby to her yet! Oh, she _was_ a baby! Little Miss
Robin just in her teens and with her childish asking eyes and her soft
childish mouth! Her a young married lady and needing to be taken care
of! She was too young to be married--if it was ever so! And if
everything had been done all right and proper with wedding cake and
veil, orange blossoms and St. George's, Hanover Square, she still would
have been too young and would have looked almost cruelly like a child.
And at a time such as this Dowie would have known she was one to be
treated with great delicacy and tender reserve. But as it was--a little
shamed thing to be hidden away--to be saved from the worst of fates for
any girl--with nothing in her hand to help her--how would it be wisest
to face her, how could one best be a comfort and a help?

How the sensible and tender creature gave her heart and brain to her
reflections! How she balanced one chance and one emotion against
another! Her conclusion was, as Coombe had known it would be, drawn from
the experience of practical wisdom and an affection as deep as the
experience was broad.

"She won't be afraid of Dowie," she thought, "if it's just Dowie that
looks at her exactly as she always did. In her little soul she may be
frightened to death but if it's only Dowie she sees--not asking
questions or looking curious and unnatural, she'll get over it and know
she's got something to hold on to. What she needs is something she can
hold on to--something that won't tremble when she does--and that looks
at her in the way she was used to when she was happy and safe. What I
must do with her is what I must do with the others--just look and talk
and act as Dowie always did, however hard it is. Perhaps when we get
away to the quiet place