'But I wasn't a baby when Ma died, you know.'
'About two years old, I suppose?'
'No; I was over five when Ma died, Miss Haddon.'
'You must be mistaken, I think. I recollect your aunt saying that you were quite young—almost a baby,' I returned, bringing the words out slowly and heavily.
'Well, five is almost a baby, isn't it?'—turning on the music-stool to look at me.
'But I think you must be mistaken in fancying you were as old as five. You could not have been much over two years and a half, or three—perhaps three,' I pleaded. If what I feared was true, was I not pleading for the good name of Lilian's mother?
'Well, I do think I ought to be allowed to know best about that, Miss Haddon. I am over twenty, and Ma has been dead fifteen years.' Then she added, with what was meant for satire: 'But if I can't be believed about it, there's the register of my birth and Ma's death to be found, I suppose; and it may not be all stories on her tombstone, which I must say Pa spared no expense about. It's in the churchyard at Highgate, where Ma was staying for change of air when she died, if you would like to go and see it.'
I folded the spoiled work carefully together, methodically replacing it in the basket, first square, then corner-wise, as I tried to gather up my scattered wits and prepare my face for Lilian's eyes again. Fortunately, Marian Reed flattered herself that she had for once succeeded in putting Mary Haddon down, and was in spirits accordingly, singing away at the top of her voice again.
I quitted the room, and slowly made my way to the green chamber, where Lilian was waiting for me.
'Well, Mary!' she ejaculated, turning a smiling happy face towards me as I entered; 'have you come to set your prisoner free, madam?'