They walked on for a little while in silence. Gerald kept feasting himself with little side glances at Eleanor's face. And it was a face well worth looking at. A delicate, slightly aquiline nose; two eyes of the deepest and tenderest blue, that put you in mind of an April sky when the clouds have divided after a shower; and massive coils of rich flaxen hair that seemed full of stolen sunshine. Her upper lip had a chiselled fineness of curve and outline rarely found among English women, and this feature it was that gave a special distinction to the character of her face. But far before everything else was a prevailing sweetness of expression--a sweetness that was without insipidity, that only served to heighten that delicate verve--the outcome of an ardent and generous nature--which shone through everything she said and did. She had a small basket on her arm this morning, for she had her pensioners already, and was returning from visiting two of them: a poor old orange woman who had broken her arm through slipping on the ice; and a young mother whose husband lay ill of a fever in the hospital. Gerald, glancing now and again into the beautiful face beside him, felt his heart thrill strangely. He would have dearly liked to fling his arms about her and print a thousand kisses on her lips. "What is the latest news of the little waif?" asked Gerald suddenly, after a pause. "I have no news other than that which you know already." "Then she has not been claimed?" "No. She is still under Mrs. Nixon's care." "It is not at all likely that anyone will now come forward and claim her." "I hope with all my heart that they won't. Those to whom she belonged left her to be found by a stranger, or to perish; and after such an act as that they can hardly want to reclaim her." "I should think that they would hardly dare do so." "The law would surely punish a deed so detestable. But I have little fear of anyone coming forward. I feel that the child belongs to me, and to me alone." "Have I, then, no share in her?" asked Gerald, with a smile. "It was agreed that you should give your share over to me," answered Eleanor. "I may at least be allowed to feel a little interest in the child's future fortunes?" "As deep an interest as you like. You are her preserver, and yours shall be the first name that she shall be taught to speak. But for all that, you must let me claim her as altogether my own." "Oh, with all my heart. I should make a very poor guardian, I am afraid, for such a wee morsel of humanity." "I have regular accounts from Mrs. Nixon every two or three days, and next week I am going down to Stammars to see her." "I wish she only thought half as much of me as she does of that young customer down at Stammars!" said Gerald, rather disconsolately, to himself, when he had parted from Eleanor.