"Dress yourself quickly, Barbara, and come upstairs with us. There's a nice fire there, and I want to talk to you about Molly. We will try and find her for you, and you shall not be hungry again. Will you trust me?" "Yes, sir, I will; no one could speak kinder, and you're not the sort of gentleman to take me in. Perhaps you won't mind telling me 'ow long you've been 'ere. I didn't know there was anybody in the house but me." "We came only a few hours ago, Barbara," I answered, "and I have been here but once before." "Wot did you come the first time for, sir?" "The house is to let, and I thought of taking it." "To live in, sir?" "Yes, to live in." "But you're never going to, sir?" "No, I am not going to." "I should say yer wouldn't," she muttered. "Who would, I'd like to know? What did you come for this time, sir?" "I will tell you more when you're dressed," I said. "It will be warmer and nicer upstairs. Be as quick as you can." Bob and I went out of the kitchen while Barbara put on her ragged garments, in which she looked a truly miserable object; Bob patted her cheek, and I took her hand and led her upstairs, the cat following at our heels. I noticed that she kept her eyes closed most of the time, and that when she lifted her lids she did so timorously and apprehensively, but I refrained at present from asking her the reason of this. It was only when we were in the room which we had selected for our sleeping apartment that she opened her eyes and kept them open. "Now, Barbara," I said, putting a chair by the fireside for her, "sit down there, and warm yourself; then we will talk." She sat down obediently, and spread out her thin hands to the comforting flame, and with a kind of wonder watched Bob as he put the kettle on and prepared to make the tea. He poured out a cup, and put in milk and sugar liberally, and gave it to her. She thanked him and drank it, saying when the cup was empty, "That's good, sir." "Are you ready to talk, Barbara?" I asked. "Yes, if you please, sir." "I am going to ask you a good many questions, and perhaps they'll lead to good." "I'll answer all I can, sir." "So you sleep in this house regularly, Barbara?" "Yes, sir; I aint got no other place. Where else'd I go to, I'd like to know?" "How long have you lived here?" "I can't tell you that, sir; it must be years and years." "Since the house has been untenanted, perhaps?" "Unwhat, sir?" "I mean, Barbara, since it has been empty?"