“Well, because she goes about with us a good deal, and people seem to find the situation difficult to understand.” He took it for granted that she knew all about Miss Mignon, and she did not press the question further. But half an hour later, when Mrs. Smith was thinking of dressing, Miss Grace tapped at her door and entered. “Could you lend me a few black pins?” she asked. “Madame and I have both forgotten them.” “Certainly, my dear—take the box.” But Miss Grace only took a few in the pink palm of her hand. “What a pretty child that is!” she said, carelessly. “Did the mother die when it was born?” “Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs. Smith, “she is not Captain Ferrers’s child. No relation whatever.” “No? Whose, then?” “Ah! That is a question.” Then she briefly told Miss Mignon’s history, ending: “But he will never part with her now. He is so fond of her, and she adores him.” “He is a fine fellow,” said Miss Grace, toying with the pins in her hand. “A fine fellow! He is a splendid character,” Mrs. Smith cried, warmly. “I assure you I have studied that man—and I have known him for years—and I _cannot_ find a fault in him. Years ago, when we were in great trouble, my mother and I, at the time my sister died, oh, he _was_ so good, so—well,” with a quick sigh, “I cannot explain it all, but he was such a comfort to us, and she died, poor darling, under very painful circumstances, especially for me. Oh, there are very few in the world like him—not one in ten thousand. Take his action as regarded that dear little child, for instance. His brother officers wanted him to send her to the workhouse, but as he wrote to me, ‘Some day I may meet the mother, and how should I face her?’” “Ah!” murmured Miss Grace, and Mrs. Smith went on. “It was no small undertaking for a man in his position, for he has not left her to the entire care of servants—she is continually with him and Mr. Lacy, who is also very fond of her. Do you know, he pays her nurse fifty pounds a year. In fact, she is just as if she were really his own child. But it is just like him.” “And they would have sent her to the workhouse?” “One or two of them—not Mr. Lacy, of course.” Miss Grace was silent for a few moments. Then she roused herself as from a brown-study. “Well, I am detaining you, Mrs. Smith, and shall be late myself. Thank you very much.” Then she went away, passing softly down the corridor, and entered her room, locking the door behind her. But once in that safe shelter she flung the pins on the table and dropped upon her knees, burying her face in her hands, while the scalding tears forced their way between her fingers, and the great sobs shook her frame. “‘Some day he might meet the mother,’ she sobbed, ‘and how should he face her?’ Oh, my child, my little child, how shall I face him? How shall I bear it? How shall I live in the same house with him without falling on my knees and blessing him for saving my little child from—God knows what?”