These doubts suggested themselves; and then again she met his ardent gaze, his glowing smile; and she could think of nothing else. He stole another kiss; and while she protested, she did feel that it was very sweet to be so loved. "I don't understand about your name," she said later, having for a while lost sight of these questionings. "Why is it different from your mother's?" "Mine is, I believe, the right spelling. Mr. Stirling settled the question for me in boyhood, and gave no reason. Sometimes I have fancied that my father may have wished to disguise his name, when he went to Canada. But I know so little—beyond that one fact that he was by birth and education a gentleman. My mother only spoke of it once; but she was quite definite." Doris could not resist saying— "But I saw his likeness." "We have no likeness of him." "Yes; it was on the table, at the farm. Mrs. Brutt took it up, and his name was written—'Phil Morris.'" "My mother has never shown it to me." "It was there," repeated Doris, reading unbelief in the tone. "And— Dick—it was not the face of a gentleman." He smiled. "Rather difficult to judge from a photograph." "It was painted." "Still less to go upon, unless the artist were first-rate. Would you like to be labelled from all your likenesses?" She was silent; not convinced. "And after all, my darling,—don't you think that the real question is— not, what my father was, but what I am? I don't mean that that is without weight; but surely—it has lesser weight." "You don't know my mother, Dick, or how much she thinks of that sort of thing." "She is—a little particular!"—fondly. "Oh, very!—very!" Doris heard her own voice speaking to the Squire, as she stood with head thrown back,—"I'm not the very least afraid of being taken for one of Jane Morris's friends!" She added faintly— "I'm afraid—I'm a little particular too." He looked at her with admiration, ready to believe that she was so in the abstract, and failing to see the present application. "You shall be as particular as you like with me, my darling. Whatever you wish shall be done." She sighed, but did not explain; and again he poured out loving words, till he had once more the upper hand, and her doubts waned before his fervour. After a while she reverted to them sufficiently to observe— "I wonder why Mr. Stirling has never spoken of you to us—or of your mother. We know him so well." "He would hardly go about talking of his own generosity. I don't think that would be his way. Besides—" Maurice stopped. "Yes. Besides—?" "I have never felt that I could fathom him. His is a perplexing character—a curious mixture of opposites. My sister, Winnie, half worships him. But, with all his kindness to us, he has somehow never managed to win my affection." "You don't care for him!"—wonderingly. "No." "But—why?" He laughed, and quoted,—"'The reason why I cannot tell—but this I do know very well—'"