not know how it came into your possession--and who you are?"

Robin's heart jumped into her throat. What had they done? It had looked
like any book except that the leather of the binding seemed softer than
most books and smelled very nice and there were beautiful colored
illustrations inside--but the Queen said it was a rare book and was
wondering where they had gotten it. Perhaps they had helped themselves
to the Manor's most precious book! She gulped, looked frantically at
Beryl, who, guessing her intention, gave violent signs of warning, to
which she paid no heed.

"Why, I'm Robin Forsyth, and this is Beryl Lynch who lives with me at
the Manor. We took the book from the library there because there are
ever and ever so many, and we thought you might be lonely--when winter
comes--and enjoy it."

"You are Robin Forsyth?" The old lady said the words slowly.

"My real name is Gordon Forsyth, but I've always been called Red-Robin.
I'm living at Gray Manor now--over in Wassumsic. My father--he's not one
of the rich Forsyths, you see--is an artist and he's travelling with Mr.
Tony Earle, who writes, you know. I wish you could come to the Manor."
Robin's heart was light now, having, by confession, cleared itself of
its moment's dread, and she rattled on, quite oblivious to Beryl's scowl
and the Queen's searching scrutiny. "It's lovely and old. Madame
Forsyth, my great-aunt, isn't there, though--at least now. She's--she's
travelling. We have a tutor and I have a guardian who lets me do about
what I please. You see, first my aunt and my guardian thought I was a
boy--the Forsyths have always _been_ boys; and it was a dreadful shock,
I guess, when my guardian found out I was a girl--and such a small
girl--and lame, too. I think, though, he's forgotten that, now. But the
housekeeper never _will_ forgive me. And my great-aunt doesn't know,
yet. I wish for her sake, I could change myself into a handsome young
man like young Christopher Forsyth who died--but I can't, so I'm just
going to be as good a Forsyth as I can and make up to them all
for--being a girl."

"Whom do you mean--'them all?'" asked the Queen. She had dropped into a
chair and turned her head toward the fire, in very much the same
attitude she had held upon their first visit.

Robin, encouraged, squatted on the hearth rug, the big dog beside her,
and clasped her hands over her knee.

"Oh, I don't mean just Madame Forsyth and my guardian, though I don't
think