Selwyn’s arm around her relaxed, then tightened.

“Why do you ask, dear?” he said very quietly.

“Because I was just wondering whether God arranged that, too.”

Selwyn looked at her a moment.  “Yes,” he said grimly; “nothing happens by chance.”

“Then, when God arranges such things, He does not always consider our happiness.”

“He gives us our chance, Drina.”

“Oh!  Did you have a chance?  I heard mother say to Eileen that you had never had a chance for happiness.  I thought it was very sad.  I had gone into the clothes-press to play with my dolls—­you know I still do play with them—­that is, I go into some secret place and look at them at times when the children are not around.  So I was in there, sitting on the cedar-chest, and I couldn’t help hearing what they said.”

She extracted another bonbon, bit into it, and shook her head: 

“And mother said to Eileen:  ‘Dearest, can’t you learn to care for him?’ And Eileen—­”

“Drina!” he interrupted sharply, “you must not repeat things you overhear.”

“Oh, I didn’t hear anything more,” said the child, “because I remembered that I shouldn’t listen, and I came out of the closet.  Mother was standing by the bed, and Eileen was lying on the bed with her hands over her eyes; and I didn’t know she had been crying until I said:  ’Please excuse me for listening,’ and she sat up very quickly, and I saw her face was flushed and her eyes wet. . . .  Isn’t it possible for you to marry anybody, Uncle Philip?”

“No, Drina.”

“Not even if Eileen would marry you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You could not understand, dear.  Even your mother cannot quite understand.  So we won’t ever speak of it again, Drina.”

The child balanced a bonbon between thumb and forefinger, considering it very gravely.

“I know something that mother does not,” she said.  And as he betrayed no curiosity: 

“Eileen is in love.  I heard her say so.”

He straightened up sharply, turning to look at her.

“I was sleeping with her.  I was still awake, and I heard her say:  ’I do love you—­I do love you.’  She said it very softly, and I cuddled up, supposing she meant me.  But she was asleep.”

“She certainly meant you,” said Selwyn, forcing his stiffened lips into a smile.

The child shook her head, looking down at the ring which she was turning on her finger: 

“No; she did not mean me.”

“H-how do you know?”

“Because she said a man’s name.”

The silence lengthened; he sat, tilted a little forward, blank gaze focussed on the snowy window; Drina, standing, leaned back into the hollow of his arm, absently studying her ring.

A few moments later her music-teacher arrived, and Drina was obliged to leave him.

“If you don’t wait until I have finished my music,” she said, “you won’t see mother and Eileen.  They are coming to take me to the riding-school at four o’clock.”