"Mr. Stretton, I do not want you to think my remarks impertinent or uncalled for. I must tell you first that I am in a somewhat unusual position. My aunt is an invalid, and does not like to be troubled about the children; my uncle hates to decide anything for himself. They have fallen into the habit--the unlucky habit for me--of referring many practical matters to my decision, and, therefore, you will understand that my uncle came to me on his return from the inn this morning and told me what you had said. I want to explain all this, so that you may see how it is that I have heard it so quickly. No one else knows." "You are very good," said Stretton, feeling his whole heart strengthened and warmed by this frank explanation. "I think you must see how great a drawback my absence of recommendations is likely to be to me." "Yes," said Elizabeth, seriously, "I do. But if you cannot overcome it in this case, how are you going to overcome it at all?" "I don't know, Miss Heron." "You said that you wished to take pupils," Elizabeth went on, too much interested in the subject to notice the mistake made in her name; "you told my uncle so, I believe. Will you get them more easily in England than here?" "I shall no doubt find somebody who will forego the advantages of a 'character' for the sake of a little scholarship," said Stretton, rather bitterly. "Some schoolmaster, who wants his drudgery done cheap." "Drudgery, indeed!" said Elizabeth, softly. Then, after a pause--"That seems a great pity. And you are an Oxford man, too!" Stretton looked up, "How do you know that?" he said, almost sharply. "You talked of Balliol last night as if you knew it." "You have a good memory, Miss Heron. Yes, I was at Balliol; but you will not identify me there. The truth will out, you see; I was not at Oxford under my present name." He thought he should read a look of shocked surprise upon her face; but he was mistaken. She seemed merely to be studying him with grave, womanly watchfulness; not to be easily biassed, nor lightly turned aside. "That is your own affair, of course," she said. "You have a right to change your name if you choose. In your own name, I dare say you would have plenty of friends." "I had," he answered, gravely, but not, as she noticed, as if he were ashamed of having lost them. "And you have none now?" "Absolutely none." "Through your own fault?" She wondered afterwards how she had the courage to ask the question; but, at the moment, it came naturally to her lips, and he answered it as simply as it was asked. "No. Through my misfortune. Pray ask me nothing more." "I beg your pardon," she said. "I ought not to have asked anything. But I was anxious--for the children's sakes--and there was nobody to speak but myself. I will say nothing more."