“My godmother is Princess Soudaroff. No; she does not need it, she is too good. Her life is given up to working among the poor. Her house is an asylum for the wretched. She loves every one, is kind to every one.” “And she has impressed her views upon you, has she? Did I understand you to say that she brought you up?” “Yes; she pitied the life I led with my parents, and she adopted me as her own. She gave me everything I could need, and provided excellent teachers for me; but, best of all, she allowed me to help her in her work. Sometimes we lived at her country house, and worked among the peasants, and sometimes in Pavelsburg, and then our work lay among the poorest of the poor. Oh, what a life it was! She cares for body and soul alike. The hospitals and prisons are visited, Bible-classes, sewing-classes held; drunkards reached, young girls away from home befriended and taken care of. To be in trouble or in loneliness--that gives you claim enough upon my Princess.” “I didn’t know that you went in for all this kind of thing in Scythia,” said Caerleon. “It’s not quite one’s idea of the Greek Church, somehow.” “But we are Evangelicals; we are separated,” said the girl, eagerly. “They say we are heretics,--Non-conformists, I think you call it in England,--and they persecute us. My godmother has often been in danger of exile, but something has always happened to save her. She has no fear at all.” “Only for you, perhaps. I suppose the reason you are here is that she sent you away when danger threatened. You didn’t leave her, I am sure.” “Not of my own free will, never! My mother sent for me; but not on account of any danger. She gave me up willingly enough when I was of no use to her, but now she thinks that I am old enough to be of assistance. Assistance to her!” “I daresay it is better for you, after all, than your life with Princess Soudaroff,” said Caerleon, judicially. “We can’t always have what we like, you know, and it doesn’t look well for a girl to be unable to get on with her mother.” “How dare you say that?” she cried, turning upon him again. “What do you know of my circumstances? Do you think I have not tried, longed, _agonised_ to honour my father and mother? but I will not help them in their work. Don’t talk to me of the look of things until you know something about them. Oh, I beg----” “Excuse me,” said Caerleon, quickly, “but if you have to apologise to me again, do you mind turning your head away, and doing it in a whisper? The effect on yourself would be the same, and it would spare my feelings.” “You are a scoffer!” said Mdlle. O’Malachy, sharply. “I hope not; but I am afraid that your apologies will get on my nerves.” “Your nerves?” she looked him up and down, and then laughed. “You don’t suffer from nerves?” “You don’t know how wearing it is to be always looking out for apologies--and getting them.”