r dismay Hubert tried persuasion, argument, rebuke, for some time
in vain. At last he turned away from her, and began walking up and down
a short stretch of the drive, bitterly regretting the impulse that had
caused him to take the care of this strange child, even for a few
moments, on his hands. But he had promised to get rid of her, and he
must do so, if only for Enid's sake. It would never do to let this
little wild creature go on roaming about the village, asking questions
about her father. And there were better motives at work within the young
man's breast. It seemed to him that he had brought a duty on
himself--that he was at least responsible for Andrew Westwood's forlorn
and neglected child.

He had not paced the drive for many minutes before the sobs began to
grow fainter. Finally they ceased, and the child drew herself into a
crouching position, with her head resting against the steep mossy bank
just within the gate. Seeing her so quiet, Hubert thought that he might
venture to speak to her again.

"You must not cry so bitterly," he said, almost as he might have spoken
to a grown-up person, not to a child.

"Grieving can do your poor father no good. Wait and grow up quickly. He
may come out of prison some day, and want his little daughter. If I take
you to a place where you can be taught to be a good girl, like other
girls, will you stay there?"

The child raised her head and fixed her dark eyes upon him.

"Not to the workhouse?" she said apprehensively.

"I promise you--not to a workhouse, if you will be a good child."

She scrambled to her feet at once, and, rather to Hubert's surprise, put
one hot and dirty little hand into his own.

"I will be good," she said briefly; "and I will go wherever you like."

Nothing seemed easier to her just then.

CHAPTER VII.

"But, dear me, Mr. Lepel," said Mrs. Rumbold, "there's no place for a
child like that but the workhouse."

Hubert stood before the Rector's wife in a pretty little room opening
out upon the Rectory garden. Jenny had been left in the hall, seated on
one of the high-backed wooden chairs, while her protector told his tale.
Mrs. Rumbold--a short, stout, elderly woman with a good-natured smile
irradiating her broad face and kind blue eyes--sat erect in the
basket-chair wherein her portly frame more usually reclined, and
positively gasped as she heard his story.

"To think of that child's behavior! I assure you, Mr. Lepel, that we
tried