“A--a--my niece,” I answered, on the spur of the moment. She was Hephzy's niece, of course. As a matter of fact, she was scarcely related to me. However, it seemed useless to explain. “I didn't know you had English relatives, Mr. Knowles. I had been under the impression that you and Miss Cahoon were strangers here.” So had I, but I did not explain that, either. Mrs. Jameson joined us. “She will sleep now, I think,” she said. “She is quite quiet and peaceful. A near relative of yours, Mr. Knowles?” “She is Mr. Knowles's niece,” explained her husband. “Oh, yes. A sweet girl she seems. And very pretty, isn't she.” I did not answer. Mr. Jameson and his wife turned to go. “I presume you will wish to communicate with her people,” said the former. “Shall I send you telegram forms?” “Not now,” I stammered. Telegrams! Her people! She had no people. We were her people. We had taken her in charge and were responsible. And how and when would that responsibility be shifted! What on earth should we do with her? Hephzy tiptoed in. Her expression was a curious one. She was very solemn, but not sad; the solemnity was not that of sorrow, but appeared to be a sort of spiritual uplift, a kind of reverent joy. “She's asleep,” she said, gravely; “she's asleep, Hosy.” There was precious little comfort in that. “She'll wake up by and by,” I said. “And then--what?” “I don't know.” “Neither do I--now. But we shall have to know pretty soon.” “I suppose we shall, but I can't--I can't seem to think of anything that's ahead of us. All I can think is that my Little Frank--my Ardelia's Little Frank--is here, here with us, at last.” “And TO last, so far as I can see. Hephzy, for heaven's sake, do try to be sensible. Do you realize what this means? As soon as she is well enough to understand what has happened she will want to know what 'proposition' we have to make. And when we tell her we have none to make, she'll probably collapse again. And then--and then--what shall we do?” “I don't know, Hosy. I declare I don't know.” I strode into my own room and slammed the door. “Damn!” said I, with enthusiasm. “What?” queried Hephzy, from the sitting-room. “What did you say, Hosy?” I did not tell her. CHAPTER VIII In Which the Pilgrims Become Tenants Two weeks later we left Bancroft's and went to Mayberry. Two weeks only, and yet in that two weeks all our plans--if our indefinite visions of irresponsible flitting about Great Britain and the continent might be called plans--had changed utterly. Our pilgrimage was, apparently, ended--it had become an indefinite stay. We were no longer pilgrims, but tenants, tenants in an English rectory, of all places in the world. I, the Cape Cod quahaug, had become an English country gentleman--or a country gentleman in England--for the summer, at least.