"What are you doing here? What is your name? Speak at once. Tell me the truth." The girl had queer, half-wild eyes. She looked down and began to mutter something indistinct. The next instant she went on her knees, caught Catherine's white dress and pressed it to her lips. "Don't," said Miss Bertram, with a movement both of decision and repulsion. "You aren't even clean. Don't touch my dress. What are you doing here?" "I have travelled a long way. I am only dirty because I am travel-sore. I have come to see the lady, your mother. I have come from far to see her. I have a message for her. Is she at home?" "Would she see you, if she were at home, at this hour? Tell me your name first, and then go away. You cannot see my mother." "You are Miss Bertram, are you not?" "Yes--and Rosendale Manor is my home. It is not yours. Go away. Never come back here again. You are not to see my mother." The girl rose to her feet. Her dress was dirty, her face was begrimed with the dirt of travel, but Catherine noticed that the dress was whole, not patched anywhere, also that her accent was pure, and almost refined. "Miss Bertram," she said, "I must see the lady, your mother. I have an important message for her; I am not a spy, and I don't come in any unkindness, but I must see the lady who lives here, and who is your mother. I have waited for hours in the avenue, hours and hours. I will wait until morning. The nights are not cold, and I shall do very well. Let me see your mother then." "You cannot. She is from home. It was you then, who bribed Tester to keep the lodge gate open?" "I gave the man a shilling. Yes, I confess it. I am doing no harm here. Put yourself in my place." "How dare you? How can you?" said Catherine, stepping away from the travel-stained figure. "Ah, you are very proud, but there's a verse of Scripture that fits you. 'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.' I know your age--you are just seventeen, I'm only nineteen, just two years older than you. You have no feeling for me. Suppose I had none for you?" The refinement of the girl's voice became more and more apparent to Catherine. There was a thrill and a quality in it which both repelled and fascinated. This queer waif and stray, this vagabond of the woodside, was at least as fearless as herself. "I don't know what you mean," she said, in a less imperious tone than she had hitherto used. "I could explain what I mean, but I won't. I have too kind a heart to crush you. I could crush you. I could take that dainty white hand of yours, and feel it tremble in mine--and if you knew all that I could say you wouldn't leave me out here in the avenue, but you'd take me in, and give me the best to eat, and the softest bed to lie upon. Don't you think it's very kind of me when I could use such power over you that I don't use it? Don't you think it's noble of me? Oh, you are a dainty girl, and a proud, but I could bring you and yours to the very dust."