"Then you were a bad wicked girl to do so," said Miss Vane, with severity; "and you ought to be sent back again--and well whipped, into the bargain!" Hubert made an impatient movement. He had never seen his aunt so much to her disadvantage. She was harsh, unwomanly, inhuman. Was it in this way that every woman would treat the poor child, remembering the story of her father's crime? Miss Vane read the accusation in his eyes. She turned aside with an abrupt gesture, half of defiance, half of despair. "I can't help it, Hubert," she said in an undertone. She raised her handkerchief to her eyes and dashed away a tear. "I feel it a wrong to Sydney, to Marion, to the child, that I should try to benefit any of Westwood's family. I can't bear to speak to her--I can't bear her in my sight. It makes me ill to see her." She covered her eyes with her hand, so that she might not see the ragged miserable-looking little creature any longer. "It would make matters no better if the child were to die of neglect and starvation at your gates, would it?" said Hubert bitterly. "She must be got out of Beechfield at any rate; you will never be able to bear seeing her about the roads--even amongst the workhouse children." "No, no, indeed! And Enid--Enid might meet her again!" "Go back to the house, aunt Leo," said the young man tenderly, "and leave her to me. It is too great a strain upon your endurance, I see. I will take the child to the Rectory; Mrs. Rumbold will know of some home where she will be taken in--the farther away from Beechfield the better." Miss Vane was unusually agitated. Her face was pale, and her lips moved nervously; she carefully averted her eyes from the little girl whom she had undertaken to question. Evidently she was on the verge of a breakdown. "I never was so foolish in my life as I have been to-day. My nerves are all unstrung," she said, turning her back on little Jenny Westwood. "I think I'll take your advice, Hubert. Ask Mr. and Mrs. Rumbold, from me, to see after the child. If they want money, I don't mind supplying it. But do make them understand that the child must be kept out of Beechfield." And with these words she walked briskly down the avenue, without looking back. As she had said, the very sight of Andrew Westwood's daughter made her ill. Hubert turned again towards the girl, wondering whether she had overheard the conversation, which had been carried on in low tones, and, if she had overheard it, how much she had understood. He could not find out from her face. It was not a face that lacked intelligence, but it was at present sullen and forbidding in expression. The black hair that hung over her eyes hid her forehead, and gave her a rough, almost a savage look. "You do not want to go back to the workhouse, do you?" Hubert said, keenly regarding the stubborn face. "No--I won't go back." "Why not?" A hot burning blush sprang to the child's cheeks. "They call me names," she said in a low voice.