Andria laughed as Beryl’s Andria had not known how. “No!” she returned contemptuously. “Bermuda is a lot of small islands; small and low, not high like this. And it’s full of people--an English garrison and American visitors. I knew a man who went there.” Beryl’s eyes dilated like a cat’s. “Then what’s this?” she whispered. “I don’t know,” answered Andria, shrugging her shoulders. “I haven’t enough geography.” “Andria, you don’t believe he means to leave us here or murder us,” said Beryl, with a queer calmness. “The first, perhaps! Not the last, or he wouldn’t have told Salome to take care of us.” “Did he?” Andria nodded. There was no need to say she was sure he had not meant it. “But there’s nothing to take care of us from!” continued Beryl ungrammatically. “He said there was. Oh, Beryl! I think and think, and I can’t see daylight. Why he brought us, why he lied to us; what it all means! He never saw me in his life, nor heard of me, so it must be on your account. No one in the convent ever knew who you were except Mother Felicitas----” “Did she?” asked Beryl sharply. “Yes. But never mind her now, I only guessed that she knew. Think if you can remember anything before you ever came to the nuns.” Beryl shook her head hopelessly. “I’ve often tried. I can’t remember one thing but a woman who used to hold me so tight and hard against her that I cried. It seemed to be in a room with a queer violet light in it--but it may be just a dream!” “It’s no more useful.” Andria walked to the open door and stood watching the sun dip into the bay they had reached that morning; it lay empty now, blank, rose, and opal under a gorgeous sky, but she was not thinking of it. She was no girl like Beryl, but a woman, with a woman’s sense of responsibility. Beryl was her charge, she would take care of her--but how? That queer, blank feeling of thoughts that would not come overpowered her as it had the day she had learned she was not Andria Erle, but only Andria Heathcote, dishonored and deserted. A soft, heavy step made her start. “’Scuse me, missus,” said Salome civilly, “but it’s mighty nigh sundown, and I got to lock up dis place.” “Lock up now!” Andria’s gentle voice was even, as usual. “Why, Salome?” “It’s dark here, missus, de minute after de sun drops. I always does like dis;” and she moved from jalousy to jalousy, round the long veranda, drawing down and bolting each stout wooden shutter with easy strength. To the remonstrance of the new mistress she paid no more attention than to a child’s; and, in truth, Andria could not wish it. Since there was some danger, somewhere, by all means let Salome bar it out! But she meant to discover and fight it openly before long. As the black woman barred the front door, Andria noticed how strong it was, and how heavy. Was it to shut in--or to shut out--that the bolts were so big! “Where do you sleep, Salome?” she asked suddenly. “In de quarters behind de kitchen.”