She spoke quite simply, without any affectation of religious sentiment. Helmsley looked at her steadily.
"Is that why you shelter me?"
She smiled very sweetly, and he saw that her eyes were beautiful.
"That is one reason, certainly!"—she answered; "But there is another,—quite a selfish one! I loved my father, and when he died, I lost everything I cared for in the world. You remind me of him—just a little. Now will you do as I ask you, and take off your wet things?"
He let go her hand gently.
"I will,"—he said, unsteadily—for there were tears in his eyes—"I will do anything you wish. Only tell me your name!"
"My name? My name is Mary,—Mary Deane."
"Mary Deane!" he repeated softly—and yet again—"Mary Deane! A pretty name! Shall I tell you mine!"
"Not unless you like,"—she replied, quickly—"It doesn't matter!"
"Oh, you'd better know it!" he said—"I'm only old David—a man 'on the road' tramping it to Cornwall."