“I never dreamed of having the bad taste to propose it,” said I. “I merely stated the only alternative to my guardianship.” “I should be willing--only too willing--to contribute towards her support,” said Mr. Robinson. I thanked him. But of course this was impossible. I might as well have allowed the good man to pay my gas bill. “I know of a nice convent home kept by the Little Sisters of St. Bridget,” said he, tentatively. “If it were St. Bridget herself,” said I, “I would agree with pleasure. She is a saint for whom I have a great fascination. She could work miracles. When an Irish chieftain made her a facetious grant of as much land as she could cover with her mantle, she bade four of her nuns each take a corner and run north, west, south and east, until her cloak covered several roods. She could have done the same with the soul of Carlotta. But the age of miracles is past, and I fear the Little Sisters would only break their gentle hearts over her. She is an extraordinary creature.” I know I ought to have given some consideration to the proposal; but I think I must suffer from chronic inflammation of the logical faculty. It revolted against the suggested congruity of Carlotta and the Little Sisters of St. Bridget. “What can she be like?” asked the old man, wonderingly. “Would it pain you to see her?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “It would. But perhaps it would bring me nearer to my unhappy boy. He seems so far away.” I rang the bell and summoned Carlotta. “Perhaps you had better not say who you are,” I suggested. When Carlotta entered, he rose and looked at her---oh, so wistfully. “This, Carlotta,” said I, “is a friend of mine, who would like to make your acquaintance.” She advanced shyly and held out a timid hand. Obviously she was on her best behaviour. I thanked heaven she had tried her unsuccessful experiment of powder and paint on my vile body and not on that of a stranger. “Do you--do you like England?” asked the old man. “Oh, very--very much. Every one is so kind to me. It is a nice place.” “It is the best place in the world to be young in,” said he. “Is it?” said Carlotta, with the simplicity of a baby. “The very best.” “But is it not good to be old in?” “No country is good for that.” The old man sighed and took his leave. I accompanied him to the front door. “I don’t know what to say, Sir Marcus. She moves me strangely. I never expected such sweet innocence. For my boy’s sake, I would take her in--but his mother knows nothing about it--save that the boy is dead. It would kill her.” The tears rolled down the old man’s cheeks. I grasped him by the hand. “She shall come to no manner of harm beneath my roof,” said I. Carlotta was waiting for me in the drawing-room. She looked at me in a perplexed, pitiful way. “Seer Marcous?” “Yes?” “Am I to marry him?” “Marry whom?” “That old gentleman. I must, if you tell me. But I do not want to marry him.”