questions, it would place her in a very uncomfortable position. On
the one hand, Maida could not tell a lie. On the other, her father
had told her to tell nobody that she was his daughter.

“The family of Mr. Jerome Westabrook,” she said at last.

“Oh!” It was the “oh” of a person who is much impressed. “‘Buffalo’
Westabrook?” Mrs. Lathrop asked.

“Yes.”

“Did your grandmother, Mrs. Flynn, go with you?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Lathrop continued to look very hard at Maida. Her eyes wandered
over the little blue frock—simple but of the best materials—over the
white “tire” of a delicate plaided nainsook, trimmed with
Valenciennes lace, the string of blue Venetian beads, the soft,
carefully-fitted shoes.

“Mr. Westabrook has a little girl, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Lathrop said.

Maida felt extremely uncomfortable now. But she looked Mrs. Lathrop
straight in the eye. “Yes,” she answered.

“About your age?”

“Yes.”