She turned those misty, unfathomable eyes of hers towards the little girl. "Don't you understand," she said impulsively, and she laid her slender hand on Pen's arm, "that the old garden was more to me than the tennis lawn is to you?" Pen felt a vague, very vague sort of flutter at her heart. She did not know that she understood, but she felt puzzled and uneasy. "Why have you come here to-day?" was her next question. "I am waiting for my friend, Marcia Aldworth. I hope to take her back with me to-night--that is if Mrs Aldworth's mind is relieved." "But what has happened?" said Pen. "Is Mrs Aldworth ill again?" "Not exactly, but she is anxious. Perhaps you can tell us something. It is Nesta." "What about Nesta?" asked Pen. "She cannot be found. Since early this morning no one has seen her. They are searching for her everywhere, and are making inquiries, but no one knows anything about her. Mrs Aldworth hasn't been told exactly what has happened, but she particularly misses Nesta, and dear Marcia will not be able to come to me unless Nesta turns up. Do you know anything about her?" "No," said Pen, a little wearily. She was not deeply interested in Nesta, nor particularly interested in Mrs Aldworth. "I half hoped you might, or some of you. You were so kind to the Aldworths when they were in such trouble about their mother." "No, I wasn't kind," said Pen abruptly, "I didn't like them." Angela did not smile; she looked grave. "Still, I don't know why you came here?" was Pen's next remark. "Your sister wanted me to come; she invited me, and I thought I would come to see her. Is she at home?" "I'm the only one at home. They have all gone to Whitby to have a spree. I didn't want to go." "But why? You are the youngest, are you not?" "Yes, I'm the youngest." "Why didn't you want to go?" Pen coloured. There was nothing at all inquisitive in the visitor's voice, but there was a note of sympathy in it as though in some indescribable, marvellous way she could guess that Pen was in trouble, and that Pen had something on her mind that was worrying her a good deal. Insensibly Pen drew a little nearer to the white-robed visitor. "I say," she exclaimed, "shall I tell you what I thought you were when I saw you coming down the path?" "What?" asked Angela. "Well, perhaps I had been asleep, I can't quite tell, but I opened my eyes with a start, and there was an angel coming along; I really thought for a minute that you were an angel; and that is your name, isn't it?" "Angela is my name." "Now that I come to look at you more closely, Angela," said Pen, bringing out the word without the slightest hesitation, "I think you are very like an angel. Have you ever seen them?" "I have never seen them, but I have often thought about them." "I don't quite know why you are different from others," said Pen. "It's that far-away sort of look, and yet it isn't the far-away look--you are different, anyhow."