apid German, her head turned backward over her shoulder, her hand still
on the doorknob.

"Shame on you, Brina. They are two children--lost, perhaps. Let them
come in."

The room was disappointingly like any other old country-house living
room; scrupulously clean and shining, a wide fireplace aglow with a wood
fire that cast bright splotches of color over the low walls, the faded
rag rugs, the piece-work cushions on the old wooden settle.

Close to its warmth sat a white-haired woman, one long thin hand
supporting her head in such a way as to keep her face in a shadow.

[Illustration: "IT'S LIKE THE HOUSE OF BREAD AND CAKE"]

Robin explained their presence in the lane, incoherently, for there was
something frightening about the silent, composed figure and the
intentness with which those shadowed eyes scrutinized her. While Robin
talked, Beryl swiftly surveyed the room and its occupants, not least of
which was a great St. Bernard dog, that, after one "gr'f'f" leaned
against his mistress' chair and regarded the intruders with watchful
eyes as though to reserve advances, friendly or hostile.

Her account finished, Robin smiled bravely back into the grave face,
with that enchanting tenderness which had won Cornelius Allendyce and
enticed him to strange deeds.

The smile worked its spell at least on the dog for he moved slowly over
to her, lifted a big paw and placed it gravely upon her shoulder.

"Caesar declares you a friend," said the woman in a slow, low-pitched
voice. "He does not welcome many into our seclusion. Please sit down.
Brina, bring these young ladies a pitcher of milk and some cookies."

Brina swung out of the room at her mistress' bidding. Robin,
uncomfortable but immensely curious and excited, sat on the edge of the
settle and chattered, while Beryl, well behind their silent hostess,
made mysterious signs with fingers and lips and eyes.

"We think this is the loveliest spot--the old town and the mill and this
lane--and all. No one would ever dream from the road that this house was
here. Has it a name? First I called it the House of Bread and Cake and
Sugar--like the fairy story, but it ought to be called the House of
Rushing Waters, hadn't it?"

"That will do--very nicely. No, no one would know from the road that the
house stands here."

But when Robin ventured: "Aren't you ever lonely?" there was a
perceptible tightening of the lips that made her sorry she had asked it.

"Robin, there's some