Alice West turned white, and sat down on the opposite bench to Nancy.
She did know that her father had died at some small country living he
held; but she never suspected that it was at Church Leet. Her mother had
gone to London after his death, and set up a school--which succeeded
well. But soon she died, and the ladies who took to the school before
her death took to Alice with it. The child was still too young to be
told by her mother of the serious past--or Mrs. West deemed her to be
so. And she had grown up in ignorance of her father's fate and of where
he died.

"When we heard, me and John, that it was a Miss West who had come to the
Hall to be governess to Parson Dancox's child, the name struck us both,"
went on Nancy. "Next we looked at your face, my dear, to trace any
likeness there might be, and we thought we saw it--for you've got your
papa's eyes for certain. Then, one day when I was dusting in here, I let
fall a hymn-book from the Hall pew; in picking it up it came open, and
the name writ in it stared me in the face, '_Alice_ West.' After that,
we had no manner of doubt, him and me, and I've often wished to talk
with you and tell you so. My dear, I've had you on my knee many a time
when you were a little one."

Alice burst into tears of agitation. "I never knew it! I never knew it.
Dear Nancy, what did papa die of?"

"Ah, that was a sad piece of business--he was killed," said Nancy. And
forthwith, rightly or wrongly, she, garrulous with old age, told all the
history.

It was an exciting interview, lasting until the shades of evening
surprised them. Miss Kate Dancox might have gone roving to the other end