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Nada rushed to her and stopped short. She did not know the woman. The woman did not know her. Nada's thwarted eagerness changed to an expression of pain; and bad news from an old, astonished, loving servant would have been less shocking than the doubtful answers of this dull creature, who stared with misgiving.

"Where is my father?" Nada cried, almost accusingly; and, without pausing, asked of her sister, and for name after name of old servants.

The fat woman was in a loose wrapper that had once been red, but was now merely dirty. Her hair was down. She stared distrustfully at the strange girl in American finery, and was fascinated by the hat. Her dull black eyes went doubtfully again and again toward McGuire.

Mr. Combe, she said, was at the town. He was there most of the time. Mr. Grinnell, the manager, was over there—and her heavy hand moved vaguely. Miss Combe was married. She did not come to the house any more. Nobody lived here now but Mr. Combe.

"Who are you?" McGuire asked.

"I am Lily."