That was a phrase that stung me. Why must she slur my poor sister now in her grave? I bowed my head but I could not reply even though I admit to a feeling of gloomy certainty that Jim Pendleton will never return. "Good-by," said Gertrude, smiling grimly at me. "Au revoir," I answered, letting her out. But she paid no further heed to me. Why I should vent my undeniable irritation upon Alicia I do not know. But I called her into my study as soon as Gertrude had gone and she entered smiling brightly. The child, I believe, looks considerably happier than she did when first she came here and her eyes are less wistful. I was conscious of the sternness of a hanging judge upon my visage. But Alicia ignored my mood. Possibly she has found me out and knows that I am least to be feared when in appearance most despotic. "Alicia," I began severely, "how are the children getting on? Are they all right?" (What an imbecile query!) "Oh, yes, sir," she wonderingly answered. "I mean—are they happy here?" I scowled at her. "Yes, sir—they think it’s lovely." "Are they—are they afraid of me?" I demanded austerely, looking grimly at my finger nails. "No-o, sir," she stammered, "they—they are not." I was terrifying the child, I realized with a pang. But when I looked up suddenly the little vixen seemed to be struggling with laughter—though that can hardly be. She had the manners to turn away. An attaching little baggage is this child, but I’ll have no nonsense. "And you—" I pulled her up sharply, too sharply perhaps, whereat I grinned in mitigation— "Do you feel competent to go on taking care of them?" "Oh," she gasped—no suspicion of laughter now—"I just love it—Oh, you’re not thinking of—of sending me away, after all, Mr. Byrd?" There was a catch in the poor girl’s voice and I felt stupid and brutal. "No—no," I growled judicially. "Not at all. I merely wanted to make sure that there is no trouble of any sort. I suggest that you report to me every day or two upon anything that occurs to you—that you think I ought to know." "Yes, sir," she faltered, "I will, sir." "Have they clothes and shoes and things—warm enough for this weather?" "Oh, yes, sir—heaps," she answered, smiling again. "And you, have you everything you need?" "Why, yes, sir—I think I have." Her shoes seemed thin and worn. I was in no mood to be superficial or evasive. "Are those the best shoes you have?" "Yes, sir," she answered faintly. Her calico frock also seemed extremely thin. "That is all," I dismissed her curtly. "Ask Griselda to come to me, please." "Griselda," I began, genial enough to one that is not in awe of me, "I wish you would look over the girl Alicia’s wardrobe and get her whatever she needs in the way of shoes and things. Would you mind doing that?" "Ay, I’ll do it, Mr. Randolph. I know some cheap places in Fourteenth Street—"