“No!” she said, with a shudder, remembering only the cruelty of Mother Felicitas and nothing of the kindness of the other nuns. “They said I had no name, that I was a charity child. Am I? If you know anything about me, tell me!” she could not keep back the question, though she knew it was useless, but the slow, insolent answer turned her blood to fire. “You are Beryl, and you have golden eyes. I don’t know, or care for anything more.” “You do know who I am!” she flashed out at him, “else why would your father trouble with me? If he is your father and not your uncle, as you said.” His face changed ever so slightly. Well, Heriot was paid for talking! “I know nothing but that I have done my best to help you from that very first night I saw you,” he said, very low. There was a passion on his face there had never been on Heriot’s, but she was not old enough to know that passion in a man is the very last reason for a woman to trust in him. And the sudden softening of the haggard lines round his mouth, the widening of his eyes, made her for the first time wonder if, after all, he were speaking the truth. “Where do you want to take me?” She was staring at him with great, fascinated eyes. If he had been like this yesterday she would never have run away from him, unwarned as she was then. “Back to England--to London--to the world. Why should you be buried here?” he said slowly. “But you said it wasn’t safe,” she faltered. “The convent----” “Can’t recall you if you’ll let me take care of you,” he answered, with his voice utterly caressing. “Will you?” For the first time she saw what he meant, what he had been meaning all along. And it was just what Andria had said. With a start of fright she sprang up. “Do you mean you want me to marry you?” she cried, wide-eyed, and, without her will, Heriot’s face sprang to her memory. She was so beautiful as she stood aghast and trembling that the man lost his head. “Yes,” he said, “just that!” and before she could move had caught her to him and kissed her madly. She could not cry out because his lips crushed her mouth, but the stifled moan would have brought any other man to his senses. She fought against him till her lips were free. “I hate you,” she stormed. “Why did I ever listen to you when Andria--ah!” she screamed at the top of her voice. “Andria!” If she had stabbed him he could not have let her go more suddenly. “What do you mean?” he said. “Who is Andria?” But it was another voice that answered him from behind his back. “I!” said Andria Erle, standing like a ghost in her white dressing-gown between the open green shutters of her bedroom window. Raimond Erle turned livid. It was Andria; Andria who was the governess, who had been engaged to take care of the only girl in the world she should never have met! He saw once more the pale face, the red-brown hair of the woman he had called his wife--and the only emotion it brought him was furious hatred.