But Jean laid an impetuous hand upon the old lady's shoulder.
"Aunt Cheerful," she said gently, "you have not once asked me my name!"
"Why neither I have, my dear," nodded Aunt Cheerful, "but then I fancied you would tell me yourself if you wished me to know."
Jean colored hotly.
"Aunt Cheerful," she said hurriedly, "there are reasons, for a time at least, why—why I can not tell you my name or why I have come to Westowe! Oh, I do hope you will not misunderstand me. May I not," she added pleadingly, "join in name that little group of nobility to which Lord Chesterfield and Lady Cheerful belong?"
"Why to be sure, you may!" exclaimed Aunt Cheerful, smiling. "I shall call you the Lady Ariel for you came to me like a beautiful spirit out of the wind and rain. Good night, dear."
Very thoughtfully, Jean loosened the shining masses of her dark hair and brushed it.
"The Lady Ariel!" she mused, smiling. "And surely as whimsical a guest as any spirit of the air might be." Absently the girl's eyes rested upon a book, exquisitely bound in Levant, on a table near-by. It bore the title "Songs of Cheer" and with a smile at the eternal cheeriness of this chance shelter of hers, the girl opened it.
"To my cheerful little mother,"
read the inscription in a man's bold handwriting,