"Oh, gracious, but I'll catch it!" she exclaimed ruefully. "Wot'll I do now? She said I'd got to keep it clean till she got back, and she'll fire me and--and I want to stay awful; it's just like the story, yer know." She raised her gray eyes appealingly to his, and he saw at once that her childish fear was real. He comforted her. "I'll tell you what: we'll go back to Hannah and she'll fix it for you; and if it's spoiled I'll go down and get some like it in the village and my mother will make you a new one. So, cheer up, Miss Aileen Armagh and-don't-yer-forget-it! And to-morrow evening, if the moon is out, we'll have a serenade all by ourselves; what do you say to that?" "D' yer mane it?" she demanded, half breathless in her earnestness. He nodded. Aileen clapped her hands and began to dance; then she stopped suddenly to say: "I ain't going to dance for yer now; but I will sometime," she added graciously. "I've got to go now and help Ann. What time are yer coming for the serenade?" "I'll be here about eight; the moon will be out by then and we must have a moon." She started away on the run, beckoning to him with her unwashed hands: "Come on, then, till I show yer my windy. It's the little one over the dining-room. There ain't a balcony, but--see there! there's the top of the bay windy and I can lean out--why didn't yer tell me yer could play the guitar?" "Because I can't." "A harp, belike?" "No; guess again." "Yer no good;--but yer'll come?" "Shurre; an' more be token it's at eight 'o the clock Oi'll be under yer windy." He gave the accent with such Celtic gusto that the little girl was captivated. "Ain't you a corker!" she said admiringly and, waving her hand again to him, ran to the house. Champney followed more slowly to lay the case before Ann and Hannah. On his way homeward he found himself wondering if he had ever seen the child before. As she leaned on the rail and looked out over the lake, a certain grace of attitude, which the coarse clothing failed to conceal, the rapt expression in the eyes, the _timbre_ of her voice, all awakened a dim certainty that he had seen her before at some time and place distinctly unusual; but where? He turned the search-light of concentrated thought upon his comings and goings and doings during the last year and more. Where had he seen just such a child? He looked up from the roadway, on which his eyes had been fixed while his absent thought was making back tracks over the last twelve months, and saw before him the high pastures of The Gore. In the long afterglow of the July sunset they enamelled the barren heights with a rich, yellowish green. In a flash it came to him: "The green hill far away without a city wall"; the child singing on the vaudeville stage; the hush in the audience. He smiled to himself. He was experiencing that satisfaction which is common to all who have run down the quarry of a long-hunted recollection.