oon goes pretty soon,"
she said; and yet there was now an eager look of curiosity in her eyes
that belied her words.

He took no notice of her warning, but resumed now with mock apology.
"But I'm afraid I'm mistaken in the identity. Sorry to disappoint you,
but the estate I allude to belongs to Miss Cameron, who lived near a
locality called Turrifs Station. Beg pardon, forgot for the moment your
name was White, and that you know nothing about that interesting and
historic spot."

Perhaps because she had played the part of indifference so long, it
seemed easiest to her, even in her present confusion of mind; at any
rate she remained silent.

"Pity you weren't her, isn't it?" He showed all his white teeth. He had
been pale at first, but in talking the fine dark red took its wonted
place in his cheeks. He had tossed back his loose smoke-coloured hair
with a nervous hand. His dark beauty never showed to better advantage as
he stood leaning back on the door. "Pity you aren't her, isn't it?" he
repeated, smilingly.

She had no statuesque pose, but she had assumed a look of insensibility
almost equal to that of stone.

"Come to think of it, even if you were her, you'd find it hard to say so
now; so, either way, I reckon you'll have to do without the tin. 'Twould
be real awkward to say to all your respectable friends that you'd been
sailing under false colours; that 'White' isn't your _bona fide_
cognomen; that you'd deserted a helpless old woman to come away; and as
to _how you left your home_--the sort of _carriage_ you took to, my
dear, and how you got over the waggoner to do the work of a sexton--Oh,
my, fine tale for Chellaston, that! No, my dear young lady, take a
fatherly word of admonition; your best plan is to make yourself easy
without the tin."

He looked at her, even now, with more curiosity than malice in his
smiling face. A power of complete reserve was so foreign to his own
nature that without absolute proof he could not entirely believe it in
her. The words he was speaking might have been the utter nonsense to her
that they would have been to any but the girl who was lost from the
Bates and Cameron clearing for all hint she gave of understanding. He
worked on his supposition, however. He had all the talking to himself.

"You're mighty secret! Now, look at me. I'm no saint, and I've come here
to make a clean breast of that fact. When I was born, Uncle Sam said to
me, 'Cyril P. Harkness, you're a son of m