"It's asleep, ma'am, and I am in a hurry," was the answer, given in all truthfulness, not in discourtesy; for it must be remembered than Ann Hopley had no grounds to suspect that this lady took any special interest in affairs at the Maze. "It slept all through its baptism." "Oh it has been baptised, has it! At Mr. Sumnor's church!" "Yes, at Mr. Sumnor's. There is no other church in the place but that," added the woman, totally ignoring St. Jerome's, but not thinking to give offence thereby. Miss Blake put aside the lace and looked at the sleeping baby. "What is its name, nurse?" "Charles." "Oh," said Miss Blake, the same notion striking her, as to the name, that had struck Lucy. "It is Mr. Grey's name I suppose--or something like it." "No, it is not Mr. Grey's name," replied the woman. "Who is the baby considered like!" went on Miss Blake, still regarding it. "Its father or its mother!" "It's not much like anybody, that I see, ma'am. The child's too young to show any likeness yet." "I declare that I see a likeness to Sir Karl Andinnian?" cried Miss Blake, speaking partly upon impulse. For, in looking whether she could trace this likeness, her fancy seemed to show her that it was there. "What a strange thing, nurse!" With one startled gaze into Miss Blake's eyes, Ann Hopley went off in a huff. The suggestion had not been palatable. "If he's like Sir Karl, I must never bring him abroad again, lest by that means suspicion should come to my master," she thought, as she took the gate key from her pocket and let herself in. "But I don't believe it can be: for I'm sure there's not a bit of resemblance between the two brothers!" "How plain it all is!" sighed Miss Blake, meekly regarding the cross upon her ivory prayer-book as she went over to the Court. "And that ridiculously simple Lucy does not see it! Bartimeus was blind, and so is she. He could see nothing until his eyes were opened: her eyes have been opened and yet she will not see!" No, Miss Blake, neither could the self-righteous Pharisee see, when he went into the Temple to thank God that he was better than other men, and especially than the poor publican. St. Jerome's was prospering. It had taken--as Tom Pepp the bell-ringer phrased it--a spurt. A rich maiden lady of uncertain age, fascinated by the Reverend Guy Cattacomb's oratory and spectacles, came over once a day in her brougham from Basham, and always put a substantial coin into the offertory-bag during the service.