"An owl! A big white one--I saw him!" I said. For indeed the bird had seemed as large as a goose, and appeared alarming enough to people so strung as we were, with ears and eyes grown almost intolerably acute in the effort of watching. "Are you not frightened?" she demanded. "No, Irma--no, Miss Irma!" I faltered. "Well, I am," she whispered; "I was not before when the mob came, because I had to do everything. But now--I am glad that you are here" (she paused the space of a breath), "you and your sister." I was glad, too, though not particularly about Agnes Anne. "How old are you, Duncan?" she asked next. I gave my age with the usual one year's majoration. It was not a lie, for my birthday had been the day before. Still, it made Irma thoughtful. "I did not think you were so much older than your sister," she said musingly; "why, you are older than I am!" "Of course I am," I answered, gallantly facing the danger, and determined to brave it out. On the spot I resolved to have a private interview with Agnes Anne as soon as might be, and, after reminding her of my birthday just past, tell her that in future I was to be referred to as "going on for twenty"--and that there was no real need to insert the words "going on for." Irma Sobieski considered the subject a while longer, and I could see her eyes turned towards me as if studying me deeply. I wondered what she was thinking about with a brow so knotted, and I knew instinctively that it must be something of consequence, because it made her forget the letter nailed to the door, and the warning which might veil a threat. She fixed me so long that her eyes seemed to glow out of the pale face which made an oval patch against the darkness of the trees. Irma's face was only starlit, but her eyes shone by their own light. "Yes, I will trust you," she said at last. "I saw you the day when the mob came. You were ashamed, and would have helped me if you could. Even then I liked your face. I did not forget you, and when Agnes Anne spoke of her brother who was afraid of nothing, I was happy that you should come. I wanted you to come." The words made my heart leap, but the next moment I knew that I was a fool, and might have known better. This was no Gerty Gower, to put her hand on your arm unasked, and let her face say what her lips had not the words to utter. "I want a friend," she said; "I need a friend--a big brother--nothing else, remember. If you think I want to be made love to, you are mistaken. And, if you do, there will be an end. You cannot help me that way. I have no use for what people call love. But I have a mission, and that mission is my brother, Sir Louis. If you will consent to help me, I shall love you as I love him, and you--can care about me--as you care about Agnes Anne!"