“By George!” cried Ross.
For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind—
“Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about this child. She’s a—sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”—he paused a moment—“alone.”
Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child, very thoughtfully.
“I don’t know any one in this country,” he went on, “so I thought if you’d advise me. I want to find a home for her. A—a real home, you know, with people who’ll—be fond of her. Just for a few months; later on I’ll take her myself. But, just now—” His dark face flushed.
“I’m a bit hard up just now,” he said; “but I’ll find a job right away, and I’ll be able to pay for her board and so on.”
Mrs. Barron continued to look thoughtful, and it occurred to him that his request must seem odd to her—very odd. The flush on his face deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said, coldly; “but there are a good many things I can’t explain—”
“Yes, you can!” Mrs. Barron declared, in her old manner. “And that’s just what you’re going to do. As soon as I set eyes on you, on board that ship, I knew what you were. And I am never deceived about character. Never, Mr. Ross! I knew at once that you were to be trusted. I said to Phyllis: ‘That young man has force of character!’ I knew it. Now you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble of some sort, and you’ve come to me—very properly—and you’re going to tell me the whole thing.”
“I can’t!” Ross protested.