Or at least that she has forgotten whether I had any other? If she had
really forgotten all that, wouldn't she have forgotten my existence
altogether, and not have taken the trouble to hunt me out, and to take
me away from the place where she found me?"

"Where was that?" asked Max.

The girl hung her head, and answered in a lower voice, as if her reply
were a distasteful, discreditable admission:

"I was bookkeeper at a hotel--a wretched place, where I was miserable,
very miserable."

Max was more puzzled than ever.

Every fresh detail about herself and her life made him wonder the more
why she was refined, educated. Presently she looked up, and caught the
expression on his face.

"That was after Miss Aldridge died," she said, with a sigh. "I had lived
with her ever since I was a little girl. I can hardly remember anything
before that--except--some things, little things, which I would rather
forget." And her face clouded again. "She was a very old lady, who had
been rich once, and poor after that. She had kept a school before she
had me; and after that, I was the school. I had to do all the learning
of a schoolful. Do you see?"

"Ah," said Max, "_now_ I understand! And didn't she ever let you know
who placed you with her?"