fascination for her. But her thoughts revolved chiefly round a
difficulty which had just presented itself--she had no real name.
What name could she take to be known by for the moment? She would
not call herself "Jocelyn"--she felt she had no right to do so.
"Ena" might pass muster for an abbreviation of "Innocent"--she
decided to make use of that as a Christian name--but a surname
that would be appropriately fitted to her ultimate intentions she
could not at once select. Then she suddenly thought of the man who
had been her father and had brought her as a helpless babe to
Briar Farm. Pierce Armitage was his name--and he was dead. Surely
she might call herself Armitage? While she was still puzzling her
mind over the question the door opened and a little old lady
entered--a soft-eyed, pale, pretty old lady, as dainty and
delicate as the fairy-godmother of a child's dream, with white
hair bunched on either side of her face, and a wistful, rather
plaintive expression of mingled hope and enquiry.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she began--then paused in a kind
of embarrassment. The two looked at each other. Innocent spoke, a
little shyly:

"I saw your advertisement in the 'Morning Post,'" she said, "and I
thought perhaps--I thought that I might come to you as a paying
guest. I have to live in London, and I shall be very busy studying
all day, so I should not give you much trouble."

"Pray do not mention it!" said the old lady, with a quaint air of
old-fashioned courtesy. "Trouble would not be considered! But you
are a much younger person than I expected or wished to
accommodate."