"Perhaps I will just tell you," he said, "why I believe Madame Sampiero may see you, apart from the fact that she desires to do so. Mrs. Turke was quite right," he went on with apparent irrelevancy, "I did know your mother. I had a sincere respect for her, and——" Again his thoughts seemed to take an abrupt turn. "I suppose you realise that I am Madame Sampiero's medical attendant,—I have no other standing in this house,—oh no, none in the world!"
Barbara divined the feeling which had prompted the last words to be bitter, bitter.
"I know," she said gently, "that you have been here a long time, and that my mother"—a very charming smile lighted up her sad face—"fully returned the feeling you seem to have had for her."
But Doctor McKirdy hardly seemed to hear the words, for he hurried on,
"One day, many years ago—I think before you were born—your mother and I went for a walk. It was about this time of the year—that is the time when keepers and vermin are busy. We were walking, I say, and I—young fool!—was full of pride, for it was the first walk a lady had ever deigned to take with me. I was uglier, yes, and I think even more repulsive-looking than I am now!" he gave Barbara a quick glance from under his shaggy eyebrows, but she made no sign of dissent, and he smiled, wryly.
"Well, as I say, I was pleased and proud, for I thought even more ill of women than I think now; but Mrs. Richard,—that's what we call her here, you know,—was so beautiful, such a contrast to myself: just a pretty doll, I took her to be, and as thoughts are free, looking at her there walking along, I was glad to know that I had all the sweets of her company and none of the bitter!"
And still Barbara Rebell, staring at him, astonished at his words, felt no offence.
"At last," he went on, "we reached the edge of the first down. I'll take you there some day. And we heard suddenly a piteous squeal: it was a puppy, a miserable little beastie, caught in a rabbit trap. You've never seen such a thing? Ay, that's well, I hope you never will: since that day you run no risk of doing so in Chancton Woods! 'Twas a sickening sight, one of the doggie's paws nearly off, and I felt sick—wanted to get away, to fetch someone along from the village. But Mrs. Richard—she was the tenderest creature alive, remember—never flinched. Those were not the days of gun ladies, but there, with me standing by, foolish, helpless, she put an end to the poor beastie—she put it out of its misery—with my knife too. Now that deserved the Humane Society's medal, eh? I never go by there without thinking of it. It's a pity," he said, in abrupt irrelevant conclusion, "that you're not more like her. I mean, as regards the outer woman"—he added hastily—"you are dark, like your father. Well now, I'll be calling Mrs. Turke, and she shall show you your rooms. We thought you would like those Mrs. Richard used to have when she came here. She preferred them to those below, to those grander apartments on Madam's floor."
"And when shall I see my godmother?"
Doctor McKirdy looked at her consideringly: