The girls had two tiny beds in a big wilderness of a room--a room that had been specially fitted, under Paul's direction, for their comfort. There was a huge cupboard that held toys and dolls; there were deep chairs and couches; there was a big fireplace, covered still with a high curved fire-guard--reminiscent of the days when they had been very young indeed. Old Paul, holding the candle, opened the door, and motioned to Honora Jackman to go in. Honora stepped in delicately, and Paul followed with the light. The first bed held Alice. She lay there with her fair curls fallen about her face, and with a smile upon the half-parted lips. Honora smiled as she bent over her. "She looks like a small angel," she whispered. In the next bed, as they tip-toed over to it, was Moira; and Moira, be it noted, was not asleep. She had lain fretting and fuming at the thought of the woman downstairs; she had heard the footsteps on the stairs, and had known, indignantly enough, that the woman was coming up. Instantly she had closed her eyes and feigned sleep. It was, of course, a very wrong thing to do, and there is no possible excuse that can be urged; but the child felt that here, at this moment, she was to see even deeper into the heart of Old Paul, and to understand what that real intimate heart meant for her. Old Paul bent over her, and softly put back a long strand of dark hair from her face. Honora Jackman had taken the candle, and was shading the light carefully, so that it happened that Moira's flush of sudden pleasure at his touch was unseen. Honora was looking not at the child, but at him, and her eyes were laughing. "Why are you so afraid of me, Mr. Nannock?" she whispered, squeezing the warm top of the candle between a finger and thumb, and looking thoughtfully at the light. "I--I don't think I am," he breathed in reply. "Oh, yes, you are," she retorted. "So much afraid of me that you had once to set this baby between me and--shall we say--possible danger?" She gave a little quick laugh in her throat, and flashed a glance at him. "Oh--that was a whim--of hers and mine," he said steadily, still keeping his voice to the lowest. "Besides, if you come to that, I think she stands first--in all things." "Oh, I quite know that," she whispered. "But I wonder sometimes, as every woman wonders where a man who interests her is concerned--I wonder what you think of me." "Nothing but the best, I assure you." "That counts for nothing--and means nothing," she whispered sharply. "Lord, what fools we women are," she went on, in quite another tone. "I wonder what you'd think of me if I told you what was in my mind?" "Is it necessary?" he whispered gravely. "I think so," she said. "I came down here and heard about you, and set you down for a fool--a gaby. I thought all this business of the children was a pose--something to make you talked about; I know now that it isn't. And I like you for it--love you a little for it." "Shall we go downstairs?" he asked.