"Oh, very much, very much indeed! It's a wonderful country; but my home has my dearest love. Life there is so pleasant, so steady-going. You can take pleasure at your own time, if you want to. Here in England it is all fever and excitement. When I stayed in London I felt as if it were a nightmare with the gas and glare and endless streets, with their endless crowds rushing on--on, without rest or pause. Ah, if you saw New Zealand I am sure you would like it. Do you know New Zealand?" "No," answered Mrs. Belswin, quietly. "I do not know New Zealand; but I have been in Melbourne." "Ah, that's too much like London." "Say rather San Francisco. Melbourne is wonderfully like 'Frisco." "Are you an American, Mrs. Belswin?" "Yes; I was born in New Orleans." "Then you are----" "A Creole," finished Mrs. Belswin, quickly. "Yes, you can tell that from my appearance. I have black blood in my veins. In America it is thought a crime. Here it doesn't matter." "I've got black blood in my veins also," said Kaituna, with a flush in her olive-tinted cheek; "that is Maori blood. My mother was the granddaughter of a chief." Mrs. Belswin moved a few steps away, as she could not trust herself to speak, so tumultuous were the feelings raging in her bosom. Her child--her own child, and yet she dare not take her to her bosom and tell her the truth. The girl's innocent words wounded her to the quick, and it needed all the stoical resignation of her savage nature to enable her to preserve a calm demeanour. "I don't remember my mother at all," went on Kaituna, idly leaning her arms on the terrace. "She died when I was a child; but I often picture her to myself." "And the picture?" asked Mrs. Belswin, unsteadily, her face turned away. "Oh, a tall, beautiful woman, with dark eyes and haughty bearing. Proud to all, but loving to me. I once saw a picture of Pocahontas, and I always fancied my mother a woman like that--wild and free and majestic. Ah, it was a great sorrow to me that she died. I should have loved her so. I used to envy other girls when I saw them with their mothers, because I have none. Oh, it must be very, very beautiful to have a mother to take care of you--to whom you can appeal for comfort and sympathy; but--but--Mrs. Belswin, why, you are crying!" She was crying--crying bitterly, and the tears ran down her dark cheeks in great drops that showed how much she was moved by the girl's idle words--tears that were caused by the terrible agony of carrying on the part she was playing. Kaituna, in great wonder, approached her; but at the light touch of the girl's fingers the woman shrank back with a low cry of fear. "Don't touch me!--don't touch me, child!" Kaituna paused with a puzzled look on her face, upon which Mrs. Belswin dried her eyes hurriedly, and took the girl's hand. "I beg your pardon, Kaituna," she said, with forced composure, "but you must not mind me, my dear. I am not very well at present. My nerves are out of order."