The poor woman did not travel far with us.  She left the train after a few stations were passed.  Our fellow-traveler got out before her to help her on to the platform.  He stood with bared head while he assisted her, but she scarcely saw him.  And even then she seemed to forget the child.  The poor thing was dragged out by her dress as it had been dragged in.  I put out my hand involuntarily as it went through the door, because I was afraid it might fall.  But it did not.  It turned its fair little face and smiled at me.  When the kind traveler returned to his place in the carriage again, and the train left the station, the black-draped woman was walking slowly down the platform and the child was still clinging to her skirt.

CHAPTER IV

My guardian was a man whose custom it was to give large and dignified parties.  Among his grand and fashionable guests there was nearly always a sprinkling of the more important members of the literary world.  The night after I arrived there was to be a particularly notable dinner.  I had come prepared to appear at it.  Jean had brought fine array for me and a case of jewels.  I knew I must be “dressed up” and look as important as I could.  When I went up-stairs after tea, Jean was in my room laying things out on the bed.

“The man you like so much is to dine here to-night, Ysobel,” she said.  “Mr. Hector MacNairn.”

I believe I even put my hand suddenly to my heart as I stood and looked at her, I was so startled and so glad.

“You must tell him how much you love his books,” she said.  She had a quiet, motherly way.

“There will be so many other people who will want to talk to him,” I answered, and I felt a little breathless with excitement as I said it.

“And I should be too shy to know how to say such things properly.”

“Don’t be afraid of him,” was her advice.  “The man will be like his books, and they’re the joy of your life.”

She made me look as nice as she could in the new dress she had brought; she made me wear the Muircarrie diamonds and sent me downstairs.  It does not matter who the guests were; I scarcely remember.  I was taken in to dinner by a stately elderly man who tried to make me talk, and at last was absorbed by the clever woman on his other side.

I found myself looking between the flowers for a man’s face I could imagine was Hector MacNairn’s.  I looked up and down and saw none I could believe belonged to him.  There were handsome faces and individual ones, but at first I saw no Hector MacNairn.  Then, on bending forward a little to glance behind an epergne, I found a face which it surprised and pleased me to see.  It was the face of the traveler who had helped the woman in mourning out of the railway carriage, baring his head before her grief.  I could not help turning and speaking to my stately elderly partner.

“Do you know who that is—­the man at the other side of the table?” I asked.