had never had a close friend in her life, except her father, unless
one counted M'riar, humble and devoted worshiper, a friend, or unless
some memories of bygone days, so faint that they might well be dreams,
and which, sometimes, she thought _were_ dreams, were truth instead of
waking fancies. Vague, they were, and shadowy, including visions of a
merry life, as a small tot, in a far country, and a lovely woman who
sometimes, while propped up with the pillows of a bed, held her to her
breast. Then it seemed as if all these delightful things had been
brought to an end in one short day. Vaguely she recalled a dreadful
time when the great bed on which the lovely woman had reclined was
empty.

All that her brain presented in the way of record of the weeks which
followed, were, first, a series of dim pictures of a hurried journey,
partaking of the nature of a flight from some impending danger. Her
father, she remembered, held her almost constantly against his breast,
while they were on this journey, so tightly that the clasp of his
strong arms was, sometimes, almost painful, and watched continually
from carriage windows, from the deck of a small vessel, and,
afterwards, from the windows of a railway train, when they paused at
stations in the pleasant English country, as if he ever feared that
someone would appear to intercept them and carry her away from him.
Then her home had been of a kind new to her--the lodging-house.
Instead of being in the midst of splendid lawns and mighty trees, she
had been hedged about by grimy streets and dull brick buildings; the
air which had been all a-sparkle for her in her babyhood, was, through
her youth, dull, smoke-grimed, fog-soaked; for roomy spaciousness and
gentle luxury had been exchanged the dinginess and squalor of the
place in Soho. The occasional visits to the theatre where her father
played the flute, now and then a Sunday walk with him when the weather