"'No,' she answered, fighting with her sobs. 'People were very kind to me just at first after my father's death; and then I think they got tired of me. They said I was helpless; I ought to have been able to put my hand to something useful. The only thing I cared for was music. I used to sing in the choir; but it was only a village church, and the choir were only paid a pound a quarter. I couldn't live upon that; and I couldn't play the organ well enough to take my father's place. And then Miss Grimshawe, a rich old lady, offered to apprentice me to a dressmaker; but I hated the idea of that. Dressmakers' girls are so common; and my father was a gentleman, though he was poor. When I told Miss Grimshawe I was going away with the Kaltarderns, she was very angry. She said I should end badly. Everybody was angry. I can never go back to them; they would all turn from me.' "Mr. Ravenshaw looked suspicious; Mrs. Ravenshaw looked serious; and even I asked myself whether the girl's story, so plausible, so convincing to my awakened interest, might not, after all, be a tissue of romance, which sounded natural, because it had been recited so often. "Gerald was the most business-like among us. "'What is your name?' he asked. "'Esperanza Campbell.' "'Esperanza? Why, that's a Spanish name!' "'My mother was a Spaniard.' "'So! And what is the name of the village where your father played the organ?' "'Besbery, near Petworth.' "'Besbery!' repeated Gerald, pencilling memoranda on his linen cuff. 'Do you remember the name of the vicar, or rector?' "'There was only a curate-in-charge--Mr. Harrison.' "'Very good,' said Gerald.' Now, what we have to do is to get this poor young lady into a decent lodging, where the landlady will take care of her till we can help her to find some employment, or respectable situation, not mediumistic. I suppose it would hardly be convenient to you to take her home with you, and keep her for a week or so, Mrs. Ravenshaw?' Gerald inquired, as an afterthought. "Mrs. Ravenshaw hastened to explain that, with children, nursery-governess, and spinster aunt, every bed in her house at Shooter's Hill was occupied. "'We have not known what it is to have a spare bedroom for the last three years,' she said. "'Babies have accumulated rather rapidly,' said Ravenshaw. Poor creature, how my careless, independent bachelorhood pitied him! 'And every second baby means another servant. If one could only bring them up in a frame, like geranium cuttings!' "'I think I know of a lodging-house where Miss Campbell could find a temporary home, not far from here,' I said. "'Think you know?' cried Gerald, impatiently. 'You can't think about knowing; you know or don't know. Where is it?' "'In Great Ormond Street.' "'Capital--close by. I'll go and get a cab. Miss Campbell, just put your traps together, and--and do up your hair, and get on a gown,' looking at her flowing robe and dishevelled hair with evident distaste, 'while I'm gone.'