"She is one of the dearest babies I ever saw," Christina answered simply, sitting down in the chair her hostess pushed forward for her, and feeling some of her awkwardness slipping from her, in presence of this kindly, dainty little lady. With girlish enthusiasm her eyes drank in the loveliness of the other's fair face, its delicate colouring, its crown of bright hair; the perfection of the tiny form, the gracefulness of the dead black gown, that fell in exactly the right folds, and was hung as no dress of poor little Christina's had ever been persuaded to hang. "Baba--we call her Baba, because her own name, Veronica, is so big for such a baby--has managed to get rather out of hand since her nurse left. We do try not to spoil her, but we don't always succeed very well. I think you must be very fond of children--aren't you? You made a great impression on Baba." "I love little children," Christina answered, with the simplicity and sincerity which characterised her; "since I have had to earn my own living, I have been a nursery governess." "It is very absurd, but I don't even know your name, and I daresay you are equally ignorant of mine?" the little lady in the armchair exclaimed, with a gay laugh. "Rupert did not put any name in the advertisement; he said it was wiser not--but I am Lady Cicely Redesdale, and Baba, as I say, is my only child, and--very precious." Lady Cicely's blue eyes looked thoughtfully at Christina, her last words were spoken absently. "I did not even know into which house the small girl was carried on Monday," Christina replied, laughing also; "the footman ran along the pavement when he saw us, and until I read your advertisement to-day, I had no idea which number in the square was the one he had come from. My name is Moore--Christina Moore--and I live in Maremont Street." "In Maremont Street? But--isn't that rather a--wretched neighbourhood for you? Do your people live there?" "I have no people," the girl answered, an unconscious wistfulness in her eyes that appealed to Lady Cicely's kind heart. "I lost my father and mother three years ago, and since then I have been living with some friends, and taking care of their children. But now they have gone to Canada and I am alone in the world." It was said without any _arriere pensee_; no thought of exploiting her loneliness crossed Christina's mind. The sympathetic glance of the blue eyes watching her, led her on to frankness of speech, and to speak to an educated lady again was a delight, to which for the past few months she had been an entire stranger. "And you--are obliged to work for yourself?" Lady Cicely put the question with hesitating kindliness.