ng forms of the woodland fern. Hubert closed the
gate carefully behind him, and stood with his aunt so as to screen the
child from observation, should friends or acquaintances pass by. He had
a keen perception of the fact that Miss Vane was making an enormous
effort over pride and prejudice and affectionate prepossessions of all
kinds in even speaking a word to Andrew Westwood's child. He himself, in
the troubled depths of his soul, was stirred by a wild rush of pity and
remorse, of sharp unaffected desire to undo what had been done already,
to amend the injury that his hand had wrought--a far greater injury
indeed than he had dreamt of doing. He had always fancied Andrew
Westwood as lonely a man as--in the world's eyes--he was worthless; he
had not known until the day of the trial that the prisoner had a child.

"Your name is 'Westwood,' I think?" Miss Vane began stonily.

Hubert was keenly aware of the harshness of her tones. The girl nodded.

"Your father is Andrew Westwood?"

She nodded again, a dull red creeping into her brown cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" There was a tragic intensity of indignation
in Miss Vane's way of putting the question, which Hubert wondered
whether the child could comprehend. "You ought to be far away from
Beechfield--it is the last place to which you should come!"

The child lowered her face until it was nearly hidden on her breast, and
spoke for the second time.

"Hadn't nowhere to go," she muttered.

"Have you no home?" said Miss Vane sternly.

"Only the cottage down by the pond where father lived. It is all shut up
now."

"Where have you lived for the last few weeks? I heard that you were in
the workhouse."

"Yes." Then, evidently with difficulty--"I ran away."

"Then you were a bad wicked girl to do so," said Miss Vane, with
severity; "and you ought to be sent back again--and well whipped, into
the bargain!"

Hubert made an impatient movement. He had never seen his aunt so much to
her disadvantage. She was harsh, unwomanly, inhuman. Was it in this way
that every woman would treat the poor child, remembering the story of
her father's crime?

Miss Vane read the accusation in his eyes. She turned aside with an
abrupt gesture, half of defiance, half of despair.

"I can't help it, Hubert," she said in an undertone. She raised her
handkerchief to her eyes and dashed away a tear. "I feel it a wrong to
Sydney, to Marion, to the child, that I should try to benefit any of