"Dear Sister Agnes," I said, "you seem to know my history, and all about
me. Did you know my papa and mamma?"

She dropped the leaf that held her fruit, and turned on me a haggard,
frightened face that made my own grow pale.

"What makes you think that I know your history?" she stammered out.

"You who are so intimate with Lady Chillington must know why I was
brought to Deepley Walls: you must know something about me. If you know
anything about my father and mother, oh! do please tell me; please do!"

"I am tired, Janet. Let us sit down," she said, wearily. So, hand in
hand, we went back to the rustic seat and sat down.

She sat for a minute or two without speaking, gazing straight before her
into some far-away forest vista, but seeing only with that inner eye
which searches through the dusty chambers of heart and brain whenever
some record of the past has to be brought forth to answer the questions
of to-day.

"I do know your history, dear child," she said at length, "and both your
parents were friends of mine."

"Were! Then neither of them is alive?"

"Alas! no. They have been dead many years. Your father was drowned in
one of the Italian lakes. Your mother died a year afterwards."

All the sweet vague hopes that I had cherished in secret, ever since I