"I’m not heartless," she rejoined tartly. "Therefore, you need not worry, Mr. Cleland. If you love her and she loves you—I tell you you need not worry. All I desire is to retain my liberty of action. And I intend to do it. And that settles it!" Cleland Senior went home in his automobile. In a few days the last legal objection was removed. There were no other relatives, no further impediments; merely passionate tears from the child at parting with Schmidt; copious, fat tears from the carpenter’s wife; no emotion from the children; none from the canary bird. *CHAPTER IV* In February the child departed from the Schmidts’ in charge of an elderly, indigent gentlewoman, recommended to Mr. Cleland at an exorbitant salary. Mrs. Westlake was her name; she inhabited, with a mild and useless husband, the ancient family mansion in Pelham. And here the preliminary grooming of Stephanie Quest began amid a riot of plain living, lofty thinking, excision of double negatives acquired at hazard, and a hospital régime of physical scrubbing. During February and March the pitiless process continued, punctuated by blessed daily visits from Cleland Senior, laden with offerings, edible and otherwise. And before April, he had won the heart of Stephanie Quest. The first night that she slept under Cleland’s roof, he was so excited that he sat up in the library all night, listening for fear she should awake, become frightened, and cry out. She slept perfectly. Old Janet had volunteered as nurse and wardrobe mistress, and a new parlour-maid took her place. Janet, aged sixty, had been his dead wife’s childhood nurse, his son’s nurse in babyhood: then she had been permitted to do in the household whatever she chose; and she chose to dust the drawing-room, potter about the house, and offer herself tea between times. Janet, entering the library at six in the morning, found Mr. Cleland about ready to retire to bed after an all-night vigil. "What do you think of what I’ve done—bringing this child here?" he demanded bluntly, having lacked the courage to ask Janet’s opinion before. Janet could neither read nor write. Her thoughts were slow in crystallizing. For a few moments master and ancient servant stood confronted there in the dusk of early morning. "Maybe it was God’s will, sor," she said at last, in her voice which age had made a little rickety. "You don’t approve?" "Ah, then Mr. Cleland, sor, was there annything you was wishful for but the dear Missis approved?" That answer took him entirely by surprise. He had never even thought of looking at the matter from such an angle. And after Janet went away into the dim depths of the house, he remained standing there, pondering the old Irishwoman’s answer. Suddenly his heart grew full and the tears were salt in his throat—hot and wet in his closed eyes.