see Mass Lennux's
chile."

"Why, how did you know me?" asked Evadne wonderingly.

The woman laughed softly. "Laws, honey, you'se de livin' image of yer
Pa."

She excused herself after a few moments and Evadne laid her head against
the cushions of a comfortable old rocking chair and rested. She wondered
sometimes where her old strength had gone. She had never felt tired in
Barbadoes. The tiny room was full of a homely comfort which did her
heart good. There were books lying on the table and flowers in the
window, a handsome cat purred in front of the fireplace, and on a
bracket in one corner an asthmatic clock ticked off the hours with
wheezy vigor. In an adjoining room Evadne could see a bed with its gay
patchwork quilt of Dyce's making, and in the little kitchen beyond she
heard her singing as she trod to and fro. A couple of dainty muslin
dresses were draped over chairs, for Dyce was the finest clear starcher
in Marlborough, and her kitchen was all too small to hold the products
of her skill. She entered the room again bearing a tray covered with a
snowy napkin on which were quaint blue plates of delicious bread and
butter, pumpkin pie, golden browned as only Dyce could bake it, and a
cup of fragrant coffee.

"I did not know anything could taste quite so good!" Evadne said when
she had finished, "you must be a wonderful cook."

Dyce laughed, well pleased. "When de Lord gives us everything in
perfecshun, 'specs it would be terrible shifles' of me ter spoil it in
de cookin', Miss 'Vadney."

"The Lord," repeated Evadne. "You know him too, then? You must, if you
live with Pompey."

Dyce's face grew luminous. "He is my joy!" she said softly.

"And does he make you happy all the time?" asked the girl wistfully.
"You seem to have to work as hard as Pompey. What is it makes you so
glad?"

"Laws, honey, how kin I help bein' glad? De chile o' de King, on de way
ter my Father's palace. Ain't dat enuff 'cashun ter keep a poor cullered
woman rejoicin' all de day long? I'se so happy I'se a singin' all de
time over my work, an' in de street; it don't matter where I be."

"But you can't sing in the streets, Dyce!"

"Laws, chile, don't yer know de heart kin sing when de lips is silent?
It's de heart songs dat de King tinks de most of, but when de heart gits
too full, den de lips hez ter do deir share."

"But suppose you were to lose your eyesight, or Pompey got sick,
or----"

Dyce gave one of her soft laughs. "Laws,