“Are you better?” she said, and her voice was oddly troubled. “I hope you are.” “Go away! I don’t want you,” said an angry, stifled voice from the pillows. At the sound of it Andria honestly gasped. Was she dreaming that she was back in the convent again, or--did she know it? With the quick gentleness that was of convent learning, she shut the door on the waiting stewardess. “Beryl!” she cried, under her breath. “Beryl, is it you?” The figure in the berth started up, sweeping aside its veil of hair with a hand and arm as thin as a goblin’s. The strangest yellow eyes in the world stared from a white face at the intruder. “Yes, it’s I,” said the indifferent, insolent voice of long ago. “I suppose you’re his governess?” “Don’t you know me?” Andria was trembling with nameless joy. Could it be true that her pupil was no stranger, but the child she had loved long ago? “No!” said Beryl Corselas, with the old vacancy in her face. “Unless----” she paused and looked straight in Andria’s eyes. The next instant she was out of bed, taller than Andria in her long white night-dress. “Andria!” she cried; “Andria,” and flung her thin young arms around the woman in her black Redfern gown. “How did you come here? Where have you been all this time? Did he find you for me?” “I don’t know,” said Andria helplessly. “How are you his ward, and when did you leave the convent?” She held the girl off and looked at her. It was Beryl Corselas, indeed, but the five years that had passed must have dealt hardly with her to have made her into a girl like this. A quick pang shot through Andria at the sullen hopelessness of those yellow-brown eyes. “Tell me,” she said quickly, “did you never get my letters? Did Mother Benedicta never speak of me?” “Mother Benedicta died the week you left,” the girl answered simply. “Sister Felicitas is reverend mother now.” “But you--how are you here?” The girl told her, leaving out nothing. And if Andria had been distrustful before, she was frightened now. Mr. Egerton, whoever he was, had no right to Beryl Corselas. There was more in his adoption of her than appeared. Andria saw quite well why he had dispensed with references in engaging a governess; he did not want any one with a good character as a trustworthy person. “Beryl,” she said slowly, “don’t tell him you know me. Let me tell him myself.” “I never tell him anything. I don’t like him,” she said calmly. “But doesn’t he know? Didn’t he get you on purpose?” “No. He never even told me what your name was. And oh! I----” she stammered, “my name’s Holbeach now, don’t forget and say Heathcote!” “Are you married? And----” she stopped, looking at Andria’s black gown awkwardly. “Don’t!” said Andria sharply. “I’ll tell you by and by,” for some one had knocked at the door. It was the stewardess, and she pointed to the open port-hole.