“Won’t you?” She eyed him wistfully. Her eyes, like any dog’s, said, “Can I trust you?” and his, though he did not know it, told her that she might. With that long look she probed and accepted him, never, I think, through all their tangled future to doubt him again. Exasperation she might feel, and weariness, and once a very exaltation of contempt; but never doubt—never any doubt at all that within the limitations of his nature, he was honest and kind. And, with belief in him, the film of secretiveness that had formed over her mind, that was not natural to her, that was but a consequence of her situation, was wiped away like mist from a window-pane. She did not realize that she had been longing for a confidant, but she did curl herself, without more ado, as close as she could wriggle to this likeable fellow-creature, and began to talk to him at a rate that would have astonished Aunt Adela. But then Justin did not interrupt her account of her own pilgrim’s progress to tell her that her stockings were muddy. And so he heard, sleepily, with his eyes on the steady slant of the rain, and most of his thoughts far enough away from Laura, all about Mother, and the twins, and Gran’papa, and the City of Gold, and what Nurse’s mother had said, and what Laura would do when she got there—a long, long tale, that reached him in some shape as the Mouse’s tale reached _Alice_. He was left with a vague notion that Laura was a rum little kid, also that the mother must be rather a charming person. He supposed, when the rain stopped, he should have to see the child back to her home.... Yet it was a bit of a shame to get her into trouble.... Queer, that she shouldn’t be living with her mother.... He wondered what was behind it all.... And what was the mother doing at the Palace?... He thought that only the attendants had quarters there.... He roused himself. “Your mother lives at the Crystal Palace, did you say?” He propped himself on his elbows, nibbling a straw and frowning meditatively at Laura, who sat, hugging her knees, hunched like a witch against the wall of the stack. “Oh, no! She’s only staying there—till she gets well.” “Then where do you live?” “Oh, I _live_ with Mother. But I’m staying with Gran’papa.” “Yes, but where?” “I told you,” she reminded him reproachfully, “at Brackenhurst. Behind Beech Hill.” “Brackenhurst! I didn’t know you said Brackenhurst. Why, I live at Brackenhurst,” he informed her. “Oh! Then I’ll see you again.” There was most flattering satisfaction in her voice. He continued, unheeding— “Funny I haven’t run across you before now. Of course—you only came in May. And we were at the Lakes all the hols. What did you say was your grandfather’s name?” “Gran’papa. Gran’papa Valentine.”