How old she was it was difficult to tell, but Leslie guessed her to be six, though she was tall for that age. She was painfully thin, and her little arms, which carried with solemn attention a cup of tea, were hardly more than of the thickness of the bones that showed through the flesh. Her face, pinched and thin and translucent, had a beauty which made the girl catch her breath. She raised two big eyes to survey the visitor, and then the long lashes fell on her cheeks. “Your tea,” she said. Leslie took the cup gently from the child’s hand and set it down. “What’s your name?” she asked, and as she put her hand on the yellow head, the little creature shrank back, her face puckered with fear. “That’s Belinda!” said Peter, with a smile. The child wore a ragged old mackintosh over a nightgown that had once been of red flannelette, but which had washed to the palest of pinks. Her hands, lightly clasped before her, were almost transparent. “I’m Mrs. Inglethorne’s little girl,” she said in a low voice. “My name is ’Lizabeth--not Belinda.” She raised her eyes quickly to the man and dropped them again. The gravity of her tone, the low sweetness of her voice, amazed Leslie Maughan. For a second she forgot that she was too tired to be interested even in the bizarre. “Won’t you come and talk to me?” The child glanced at the door. “Mother wants me.” “Talk to the lady!” Evidently Mrs. Inglethorne at the bottom of the stairs had good ears. The child started, looked apprehensively round and came sidling toward Leslie. “What do you do with yourself?” asked Leslie. “Do you go to school?” Elizabeth nodded. “I think about Daddy most of the time.” Leslie remembered that Daddy was at that moment serving his country in Dartmoor. “I keep him in a book; he’s very nice--ever so nice.” The child nodded soberly. “In a book?” asked Leslie. “What kind of a book?” A voice outside the door supplied an answer. Mrs. Inglethorne must have crept up the stairs to listen better. “Don’t take no notice of her, miss; she’s a bit cracked! Any good-looking feller she sees in a book she says is her father! Why, she used to take the king once, and then Lord what’s-his name; and when I think of her own poor dear father that worked his fingers to the bone and got a ‘stretch’ for nothing, as innocent as a babe unborn--it’s very hard----” Elizabeth was tense now; her big eyes narrowed, her ear turned to the door. It was an attitude of apprehension, and Leslie’s heart ached for the child. She smoothed her hair, and this time the little girl did not shrink. “I’ll send you some wonderful pictures and you’ll be able to make up fathers and uncles and all sorts of nice things from them.” Stooping, she kissed the child, and with her arm about her painfully thin shoulders led her to the door. On the landing the unhealthy-looking Mrs. Inglethorne smirked and squirmed, a picture of gratitude for the lady’s condescension.