"We fancied he would make her confess more; but he didn't. At least, if he did, he kept it to himself. He only said to uncle—when he came out alone—that he understood mother's position, and that it was a very difficult one. Uncle said something about wishing to see her marriage-certificate. And—we were so surprised!—Mr. Stirling said he had seen it, and it was all right; only, he would say nothing more. Uncle had to be content; but he and I did think it odd. Why couldn't she have shown it to uncle, just as much as to Mr. Stirling? Of course he is a very, very old and kind friend; and we owe a great, great deal to him. But it does seem queer. It is all so worrying; and I don't find it easy to be brave. I suppose things are harder to bear, when one is ill and weak." "Poor Winnie!" murmured Doris. Then, unexpectedly,—"Why does she call you 'Raye?'" "My name is 'Richard Raye.' I've always been called 'Raye' by my mother and sisters." "And not by your friends?" "No." "Dick—do you remember how I fancied, when first we met, that I had seen you before? I wonder if it is that you are a little like Winnie." "I have never been counted like any of them. But of course there might be a look." (Mrs. Brutt, listening to all this, could hardly restrain her eagerness. Something worth knowing had indeed come to hand. Not only that Maurice and Doris were, if not strictly engaged, at least conditionally promised one to another; but that Maurice, the would-be fiancé of Doris, was the son of Mrs. Morris of Wyldd's Farm, and of some unknown individual, who might have been—anything! She realised to the full what a bitter pill this would prove to the stately "Rectorinn.") (And the Squire! How in the world had it come about that he should be mixed up with these third-rate Morrises?) (In brief intervals of talk, she tried to puzzle out the mystery. Nurse Molly had been the attendant of his infant niece, during a time of serious delicacy lasting several months, up to the very time, no doubt, when she must have jilted Phil Morris and have taken up with the "other man." Perhaps the Squire knew all about it; perhaps the real husband might even have been a friend of his! This view of the question, however, she dismissed as improbable. On the whole, in her judgment, the only tenable theory was that Mr. Stirling had been as much deceived by "those dreadful Morrises" as everybody else.) (She remembered with pride her own keenness of sight. "Didn't I tell Miss Stirling that there was something mysterious in the woman— something underneath in her history? I knew it! was sure of it! I couldn't be mistaken." She determined that, so soon as she should return home, she would thoroughly investigate the matter.) Maurice was speaking again. "Shall we go a little farther? Can you spare the time?" "I can spare it,"—laughing. "But we must take care. Mrs. Brutt is awfully suspicious." "It is not her concern." ("Thanks!"—voicelessly murmured the listener.)