‘Even supposing all that were true, and Mrs. Moore were your aunt—which I doubt—and had left her husband guardian over you, still, there are limits to the powers of guardians.’ ‘Then if you see him, you think’—with trembling anxiety—‘you can tell him that he has no hold over me?’ ‘Yes, I think so.’ ‘And I shall be free?’ ‘Quite free.’ Ella leans forward. Her hands are upon her knees and are tightly clenched. She is thinking. Suddenly a soft glow overspreads her face. She lifts her eyes to his, and he can see that a wonderful brilliance—the light of hope—has come into them. ‘It is too good to be true,’ says she slowly. ‘Oh no, I hope not. But I wish I had a few more particulars, Miss Moore. I am afraid’—seeing a shade upon her face—‘I shall be obliged to call you that until I have discovered your real name. And to do that you must help me. Have you no memory that goes farther back than the Moores? You spoke of someone who used to call you Elly—’ ‘It was a woman,’ says she quickly. ‘Often—often in my dreams I see her again. She used to kiss me—I remember that.’ It is such a sad little saying—once, long ago, so long ago that she can scarcely remember it, some woman used to kiss her! But, evidently, since that tender kisses had not fallen to the poor child’s lot. ‘But she died. I saw her lying dead. I thought she was asleep. She was very beautiful—I remember that, too. I don’t want to see anyone dead again. Death,’ says she with a shudder, ‘is horrible!’ This, coming from one who had braved its terrors voluntarily so very lately, causes Wyndham to look at her in some surprise. ‘Yes!’ says he. ‘And yet that night when the Professor gave you something that might have led to death, were you frightened then?’ ‘I think I have explained that,’ says she, with a slight touch of dignity. ‘True.’ He continues the slow pacing to and fro upon the garden-path that he has taken up occasionally during this interview. ‘There is nothing more, then, that you can tell me? The lady of whom you speak, who used to kiss you, was perhaps your mother?’ ‘I think so—I believe it,’ says the girl. She turns to him a face flushed and gratified. ‘Mr. Wyndham, it was kind of you to call her that—a lady! To me, too, she seems a lady, and, besides that, an angel.’