"Ha! ha! You may well look astonished. Rather different to when we last met," she said bitterly. "But come inside and we can talk. Don't be afraid," seeing him hesitate; "I'm quite alone." "Oh, that alters the case materially. You see, I never was one to mince matters. Therefore I don't mind telling you that this isn't New York, but a confoundedly gossipy little English provincial place. Moral--One must be circumspect. And now, Lizzie," he went on, sliding into a big wooden chair, "tell me all about yourself--and--and how it is you're trying the _role_ of cottage maiden--and here above all places in the world." "That's soon said. I'm keeping house for father." "`For father'? I don't quite see. If it's a fair question, who the deuce is he?" "Stephen Devine--and he's now up before the magistrates for catching some of your hares. Yours, mind." Roland whistled. Surprise followed upon surprise. Surprise one--to find this girl here at all. Surprise two--that she should turn out to be the daughter of Stephen Devine, the greatest rascal on the whole countryside. He had known her under another name. "Lizzie, I'll be quite candid with you. The fact is, this unexpected parent of yours enjoys the reputation of being--well, a `bad lot.' Do you intend to take up your quarters here with him altogether?" "That's as may be. Didn't you know I was here?" "Know it? How should I?" "I don't believe you did. I'm pretty sharp, you see, and the jump you gave when you saw me was no make-believe. I've only been here a fortnight, no longer than you have. I came over in the `Balearic,' the steamer before yours. It was queer that we should both have returned home at the same time, wasn't it? And how do you think I'm looking?" There was a world of mingled emotions in her tones. Distrust, resentment, bitterness, and a strong undercurrent of passion. A stranger would have been puzzled by this daughter of the people, who talked and looked so far above her station. Her auditor, for his part, was not a little discomfited. The first surprise over, the situation held out endless complications. It was one thing for the prodigal in a far country to pick up a beautiful nobody for his amusement--quite another for the future Squire of Cranston to return home and find that inconvenient young person domiciled at his very door, and owning parentage with a skulking, drunken and poaching rascal, at whom even his own squalid class looked askew. A unit in the crowd at American pleasure resorts was one thing; Dorrien of Cranston at home, quite another. He foresaw grave difficulties. "How do I think you are looking? Why, first-rate, of course," he answered. "Improved, if anything."