"Didn't you find out?" "Yes; I heard all their names, but I've forgotten. I know one of them is the child-angel's sister, and the other is her cousin. The one I saw with her was probably the sister." "What, the one named Ethel?" "Yes." "Ethel--Ethel Fay. H'm," said Hawbury, in a tone of disappointment. "I knew it would be so. There are so many Ethels about." "What's that?" "Oh, nothing. I once knew a girl named Ethel, and--Well, I had a faint idea that it would be odd if this should be the one. But there's no such chance." "Oh, the name Ethel is common enough." "Well, and didn't you find out any thing about her people?" "Whose--Ethel's?" "Your child-angel's people." "No. What do I care about her people? They might be Jews or Patagonians for all I care." "Still I should think your interest in her would make you ask." "Oh no; my interest refers to herself, not to her relatives. Her sister Ethel is certainly a deuced pretty girl, though." "Sconey, my boy, I'm afraid you're getting demoralized. Why, I remember the time when you regarded the whole female race with a lofty scorn and a profound indifference that was a perpetual rebuke to more inflammable natures. But now what a change! Here you are, with a finely developed eye for female beauty, actually reveling in dreams of child-angels and their sisters. By Jove!" "Nonsense," said Dacres. "Well, drive on, and tell all about it. You've seen her, of course?" "Oh yes." "Did you call?" "Yes; she was not at home. I went away with a snubbed and subdued feeling, and rode along near the Villa Reale, when suddenly I met the carriage with Lady Dalrymple and the child-angel. She knew me at once, and gave a little start. Then she looked awfully embarrassed. Then she turned to Lady Dalrymple; and by the time I had got up the carriage had stopped, and the ladies both looked at me and bowed. I went up, and they both held out their hands. Lady Dalrymple then made some remarks expressive of gratitude, while the child-angel sat and fastened her wonderful eyes on me, and threw at me such a pleading, touching, entreating, piteous, grateful, beseeching look, that I fairly collapsed. "When Lady Dalrymple stopped, she turned to her and said: "'And oh, aunty darling, did you _ever_ hear of any thing like it? It was _so_ brave. Wasn't it an awfully plucky thing to do, now? And I was really inside the crater! I'm sure _I_ never could have done such a thing--no, not even for my _own papa_! Oh, how I do _wish_ I could do something to show how _awfully_ grateful I am! And, aunty darling, I do _wish_ you'd tell me what to do.'