"And before you took to this kind of life," said the baronet, strangely interested in this vagrant girl; "how did you get your living before then?"
"I lived with my father," answered the girl, in an altered tone. "Have you finished your questions?"
She shuddered slightly, and rose from her crouching attitude. The moon still shone upon her face, intensifying its deathlike pallor.
"See," said her unknown questioner, "here are a couple of sovereigns. You need not wander into the open country to look for an empty barn. You can procure shelter at some respectable inn. Or stay, it is close upon midnight: you might find it difficult to get admitted to any respectable house at such an hour. You had better come with me to my hotel yonder, the 'Star'—the landlady is a kind-hearted creature, and will see you comfortably lodged. Come!"
The girl stood before Sir Oswald, shivering in the bleak wind, with a thin black shawl wrapped tightly around her, and her dark brown hair blown away from her face by that bitter March wind. She looked at him with unutterable surprise in her countenance.
"You are very good," she said; "no one of your class ever before stepped out of his way to help me. Poor people have been kind to me—often—very often. You are very good."
There was more of astonishment than pleasure in the girl's tone. It seemed as if she cared very little about her own fate, and that her chief feeling was surprise at the goodness of this fine gentleman.
"Do not speak of that," said Sir Oswald, gently; "I am anxious to get you a decent shelter for the night, but that is a very small favour. I happen to be something of a musician, and I have been much struck by the beauty of your voice. I may be able to put you in the way of making good use of your voice."
"Of my voice!"
The girl echoed the phrase as if it had no meaning to her.