"At this hour?"

"At any hour. What," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a
guardian _for,_ if it isn't to take care of people?"

The professor gives it up. The heat of battle has overcome him. With
a deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long
it will be before happy death will overtake him.

But in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting
for that grim friend, what is to be done with her? If--Good heavens!
if anyone had seen her come in!

"Who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly.

"A great big fat woman with a queer voice! Your Mrs. Mulcahy of
course. I remember your telling me about her."

Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly. Well, the professor wishes now he had told
his ward _more_ about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she--awful
thought-- will she trust him? What is she thinking now?

"I said, 'Is Mr. Curzon at home?' and she said, 'Well I niver!' So I
saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and I
ran past her, and up the stairs, and I looked into one room where
there were lights but you weren't there, and then I ran on again
until I saw the light under _your_ door, and, "brightening, "there
you were!"