In a certain diminished degree children share the instinct whereby brutes discern almost infallibly the nature of those who in full fruition of expanded reason tower above and control them; and, awed by something which she read in this dominative new face, Regina stood irresolute in front of him, unwilling to accept the shapely white hand held out to her.

He advanced a step, and took her fingers into his soft warm palm.

“I hope, Miss Regina, that you are glad to see me.”

Her eyes fell from his countenance to the broad seal ring on his little finger, then, gazing steadily up into his, she said: 

“I think I never saw you before, and why should I be glad?  Why did you come and ask for me?”

“Because your mother sent me to look after you.”

“Then I suppose, sir, you are very good; but I would rather see my mother.  Is she well?”

“Almost well now, though she has been quite ill.  If you promise to be very good and obedient, I may find a letter for you, somewhere in my pockets.  I have just been telling Mother Aloysius, to whom I brought a letter, that I have come to remove you from her kind sheltering care, as your mother wishes you for a while at least to be placed in a different position, and I have promised to carry out her instructions.  Here is her letter.  Shall I read it to you, or are you sufficiently advanced to be able to spell it out without my assistance?”

He held up the letter, and she looked at him proudly, with a faint curl in her dainty lip, and a sudden lifting of her lovely arched eyebrows, which, without the aid of verbal protest, he fully comprehended.  A smile hovered about his mouth, and disclosed a set of glittering perfect teeth, but he silently resumed his seat.  As Regina broke the seal, Mother said: 

“Wait, dear, and read it later.  Mr. Palmer has already been detained some time, and says he is anxious to catch the train.  Run up to the wardrobe, and Sister Helena will change your dress.  She is packing your clothes.”

When the door closed behind her a heavy sigh floated through the grating, and the sweet seraphic face of the nun clouded.

“I wish we could keep her always; it is a sadly solemn thing to cast such a child as she is into the world’s whirlpool of sin and sorrow.  To-day she is as spotless in soul as one of our consecrated annunciation lilies; but the dust of vanity and selfishness will tarnish, and the shock of adversity will bruise, and the heat of the battle of life that rages so fiercely in the glare of the outside world will wither and deface the sweet blossom we have nurtured so carefully.”

“In view of the peculiar circumstances that surround her, her removal impresses me as singularly injudicious, and I have advised against it, but her mother is inflexible.”

“We have never been able to unravel the mystery that seems to hang about the child, although the Bishop assured us we were quite right in consenting to assume the charge of her.”