“The baroness, did you say, George? Sure, I was right, she is no common child, no fit wife even for gentleman Jack,” exclaimed the old woman, opening her umbrella, partly to keep the fog off, partly as a sort of screen to shut in the secret she had yearned so long to learn. But George was following up his own train of thought, and went on, heedless of her interruption— “Though, as true as I stand here, I never knew till last week that Monsieur Léon was drowned, and the Hirondelle lost a day or two after I left her. Likely as not the baron thinks the child was drowned too, since they have never found her. I might never have known, only I happened to ask at Yarmouth if they had ever had a French yacht named Hirondelle over there, and some of the fishermen remembered all about the wreck. When I heard that I determined to come and see if the child was safe, and now I know it is, I want to do the rest, mother.” “Yes, honey, what is it? You may trust me. I guessed the night I met you you knew all about the fairies’ child, and I have kept your secret and watched the child ever since, for your sake, George.” “Well, I want you to go to John Shelley, or to the parson if you like, or both, and tell them the child belongs to the Baron de Thorens, of Château de Thorens, near Carolles, in Normandy. Shall I write it down for you?” “No, no, I can’t read it if you do; I shall remember fast enough—Baron de Thorens, Château de Thorens, near Carolles, Normandy. I shall think of Christmas carols, De Thorens, Château de Thorens,” repeated Dame Hursey. “Never mind château, it only means castle, but don’t forget the name, De Thorens. Here, I’ll cut that word on your umbrella handle with my knife in printed letters. You can read print, I know.” “All right; and what else am I to tell them?” “Why, that my master and the baron gave me the child twelve years and a half ago to put out to nurse with an Englishwoman. I went ashore at Brighton in a little boat with Pierre Legros, one of the sailors, and I walked across the downs with the child, and left it on John Shelley’s doorstep; then I told Monsieur Léon John had taken it in and promised to look after it. He took the address, and the only person I thought I had robbed was John Shelley, though I knew the baron would make it up to him when he heard of it.” “Are they rich, George?” asked the old woman, taking a pinch of snuff as she peered at her son through the fog. “Yes, I think so. The château is a beautiful place, and stands in a park.” “Is that all I am to say?” “Yes, leave the rest to the parson to decide; he will write to the baron in French very likely. You may tell them as soon as you like, for I shall be out of the country to-morrow.”