ieved to find you so reasonable, Mrs. Blake. It is
certainly wiser and better to tell me yourself. You have my promise
that, as far as possible, I will give you my help; but at present I do
not know how this may be.'

'Yes; I will tell you my story,' she answered. But there was a
bitterness of antagonism in her tone as she said this. 'I have always
been afraid of you, Captain Burnett; I felt you disliked and mistrusted
me, and I have never been easy with you. If it were not for Kester, and
your kindness to him, I should be horribly afraid of you. But for
Kester's sake you would not be hard on his mother.'

'I would not be hard on any woman,' he answered quietly. 'It is true I
have mistrusted you. I told you so yesterday. But if you will confide in
me, you shall not repent your confidence.'

'You mean you will not be my enemy.'

'I am no woman's enemy,' he said a little proudly. 'I wish someone else
had been in my place yesterday; you can understand it is not a pleasant
business to ask these questions of a lady; but there are many interests
involved, and I am like a son to Dr. Ross. I am bound to look into this
matter more closely for his sake, and----' he paused, and, if possible,
Mrs. Blake turned a little pale.

'Let me tell you quickly,' she said. 'Perhaps, after all, you will not
blame me, and you will help me to keep it from Cyril.' And here she
looked at him imploringly, and he could see the muscles of her face
quivering. 'No, I never loved Mat. I felt it was a condescension on my
part to marry him. My people were well connected. One of my uncles was a
dean, and another was a barrister. My father was a clergyman.'

'What was his name?'

'Stephen Carrick. He was Vicar of Bardley.'

'I have heard of Dean Carrick; he wrote some book or other, and came
into some notoriety before his death. Is it possible that you are his
niece?'

'Yes. I was very proud of him, and of my other uncle; but they would
have nothing to do with me after my marriage. We were living in Ireland
then, and when Mat brought me to London I seemed to have cut myself
adrift from all my people. My father died not long afterwards, and my
mother followed him, and my two brothers were at sea. I saw the name of
Carrick in the papers one day--James Carrick--he was in the navy; so it
must have been Jem. Well, he is dead, and, as far as I know, Charlie may
be dead too.'

She spoke with a degree of hardness that astonished him, but he would
not i