l her year's up," she explained. "And
it's the best thing she could do--being left a young widow with children
and nothing to live on. Mr. Jenkinson can give her more than she's ever
had in the way of comforts."

"Did she love poor Jem very much?" Robin asked.

"She was very much taken with him in her way when she married him,"
Dowie said. "He was a cheerful, joking sort of young man and girls like
Henrietta like jokes and fun. But they were neither of them romantic and
it had begun to be a bit hard when the children came. She'll be very
comfortable with Mr. Jenkinson and being comfortable means being
happy--to Henrietta."

Then Robin smiled a strange little ghost of a smile--but there were no
dimples near it.

"You haven't told me that I am thin, Dowie," she said. "I know I am
thin, but it doesn't matter. And I am glad you kissed me first. That
made me sure that you were Dowie and not only a dream. Everything has
been seeming as if it were a dream--everything--myself--everybody--even
you--_you_!" And the small hand clutched her hard.

A large lump climbed into Dowie's throat but she managed it bravely.

"It's no use telling people they're thin," she answered with stout good
cheer. "It doesn't help to put flesh on them. And there are a good many
young ladies working themselves thin in these days. You're just one of
them that's going to be taken care of. I'm not a dream, Miss Robin, my
dear. I'm just your own Dowie and I'm going to take care of you as I did
when you were six."

She actually felt the bones of the small hand as it held her own still
closer. It began to tremble because Robin had begun to tremble. But
though she was trembling and her eyes looked very large and frightened,
the silence was still deep within them.

"Yes," the low voice faltered, "you will take care of me. Thank you,
Dowie dear. I--must let people take care of me. I know that. I am like
Henrietta."

And that was all.

* * * * *

"She's very much changed, your grace," Dowie said breathlessly when she
went to the Duchess afterwards. There had been no explanation or going
into detail but she knew that she might allow herself to be breathless
when she stood face to face with her grace. "Does she cough? Has she
night sweats? Has she any appetite?"

"She does not cough yet," the Duchess answered, but her grave eyes were
as troubled as Dowie's own. "Doctor Redcliff will tell you everything.
He will see you