"Perhaps I will just tell you," he said, "why I believe Madame Sampiero may see you, apart from the fact that she desires to do so. Mrs. Turke was quite right," he went on with apparent irrelevancy, "I _did_ know your mother. I had a sincere respect for her, and----" Again his thoughts seemed to take an abrupt turn. "I suppose you realise that I am Madame Sampiero's medical attendant,--I have no other standing in this house,--oh no, none in the world!" Barbara divined the feeling which had prompted the last words to be bitter, bitter. "I know," she said gently, "that you have been here a long time, and that my mother"--a very charming smile lighted up her sad face--"fully returned the feeling you seem to have had for her." But Doctor McKirdy hardly seemed to hear the words, for he hurried on, "One day, many years ago--I think before you were born--your mother and I went for a walk. It was about this time of the year--that is the time when keepers and vermin are busy. We were walking, I say, and I--young fool!--was full of pride, for it was the first walk a lady had ever deigned to take with me. I was uglier, yes, and I think even more repulsive-looking than I am now!" he gave Barbara a quick glance from under his shaggy eyebrows, but she made no sign of dissent, and he smiled, wryly. "Well, as I say, I was pleased and proud, for I thought even more ill of women than I think now; but Mrs. Richard,--that's what we call her here, you know,--was so beautiful, such a contrast to myself: just a pretty doll, I took her to be, and as thoughts are free, looking at her there walking along, I was glad to know that I had all the sweets of her company and none of the bitter!" And still Barbara Rebell, staring at him, astonished at his words, felt no offence.