Virginia owned that she had mentioned the Little Red Chimney to him, and that when the identity of her ladyship had come to light, he had exclaimed, “I might have guessed!”

“Well, really,” said Miss Bentley, sitting up very straight, “what business is it of his to be guessing about me?”

“He isn’t Irish like Tim,” Virginia hastened to assure her.  “He’s very nice.  He’s a friend of mine.”

Margaret Elizabeth laughed.  “That makes it all right, I suppose; and if he picked me up—­But who is the Miser?”

“He lives over there,” Virginia pointed toward the front window, “in that stone house with the vine on it.  Aleck says he has rooms and rooms full of money.”

The house she indicated was almost black with time and soot, but its fine proportions suggested spacious, high-ceiled rooms, and whatever its present condition, a past of dignity and importance.

“How extremely interesting!  What a remarkable neighbourhood this seems to be!”

“Is it like a fairy-tale where you stay when you aren’t here?” Virginia asked.

Sudden illumination came to Margaret Elizabeth.  “That is just what it isn’t,” she cried.  “It’s splendid and beautiful, and all sorts of things, except a fairy-tale.  I wonder why?  I love fairy-tales and Little Red Chimneys.”

“So does the Candy Man,” exclaimed Virginia, charmed at the coincidence.  “It must be fun to be a Candy Man,” she continued.  “It isn’t much like a fairy-tale where I live.  I should like to live in a sure-enough house with stairs.”

“You talk like a squirrel who lives in a tree.  And speaking of squirrels, you and I must buy some nuts for our bunny sometime, from this Candy Man.  If he picked me up I suppose I ought to patronise him.  All the same, Virginia,” and now Miss Bentley spoke with great seriousness, “I wish you not to say anything about me to him.  It is rather silly, you know.”

Virginia did not know, but she longed to do in every particular what Miss Bentley desired, so she promised.

The opal lights in the western sky were the only reminders left of the sunny day, when Uncle Bob, seated comfortably in the big armchair, listened to Margaret Elizabeth’s confession, the flames dancing and curling around a fresh log meanwhile.  In size it was but a modest log, for the fireplace was neither wide nor deep like those at Pennington Park, but the Little Red Chimney did its part so merrily and well that upon no other hearth could the flames dance and curl so gaily.  At least so it had seemed to Margaret Elizabeth, sitting there chin in hand, after Virginia’s departure.

“And you are certain you never met him before?” Uncle Bob ran his fingers through his hair and frowned thoughtfully.