"But I am not going to put you through a catechism on Irish local scenery," Roderick said, with a laugh; "I am almost sure you told me that you knew Father Owen Farley."
"Oh, my dear, dear Father Owen!" cried Winifred from the depth of her chair. The mention of that beloved name had aroused her from the spell of shyness, or some other cause, which had hitherto kept her silent.
Roderick turned quickly, and at the same moment Winifred stood up and faced him. There they were together, father and daughter, as any one could see at a glance.
"Do you know Father Owen, sir?" the child asked; and at her voice Roderick started. He did not answer her question, but, gazing at her intently, asked instead:
"Who are you, child?"
Something in the question abashed or offended Winifred; for she drew her little figure to its highest and replied not a word.
Roderick smiled involuntarily at the movement; and I, stepping forward, interposed myself between the father and daughter and drew the child away.
"Come!" I said: "we are in a hurry." And, with a bow and a few muttered words of farewell, I hastened out of the room; and, rushing from the hotel as if a plague had suddenly broken out there, I almost ran with the wondering Winifred to Broadway, where we took a cable car as the safest and speediest means of leaving that vicinity behind us. I had left the note which I was writing on the table; but, fortunately, I had sealed and stamped it, intending to put it in the mail-box in the hall. I was sure it would be posted, and gave myself no further concern about it.
I knew Roderick would come to me sooner or later for an explanation of that strange scene—the presence there of the child and my own singular conduct. His impetuous nature would give him no rest till he had cleared up that mystery. But at least the child should be safe back in the convent before I saw him; and I could then refuse to answer any questions, or take any course I thought proper, without fear of interference on the part of Winifred.