Like all girls of seventeen, Edith was in raptures, nor could he make her sit still beside him until, divested of her riding habit, she had tried the effect of the delicate ornaments, bracelets, ear-rings, necklace and all.

“I am so glad you like them,” he said, and he did enjoy it very much, sitting there and listening to her as she danced about the room, uttering little girlish screams of delight, and asking Victor, when at last he came in—­“if she wasn’t irresistible?”

Victor felt that she was, and in his polite French way he complimented her, until Richard bade him stop, telling him “she was already spoiled with flattery.”

The pearls being laid aside and Victor gone, Edith resumed her accustomed seat upon a stool at Richard’s feet, and folding both hands upon his knee, looked into his face, saying, “Well, monsieur, why did you go off to New York so suddenly?  I think you might tell me now unless it’s something I ought not to know.”

He hesitated a moment as if uncertain whether to tell her or not; then said to her abruptly, “You’ve heard, I believe, of the little child whom I saved from drowning?”

“Yes,” she answered.  “Don’t you know I told you once how I used to worship you because you were so brave.  I remember, too, of praying every night in my childish way that you might some day find the little girl.”

“Edith, I have found her,” and the nervous hands pressed tenderly upon the beautiful head almost resting in his lap.

“Found her!” and Edith sprang to her feet, her large eyes growing larger, but having in them no shadow of suspicion.  “Where did you find her?  Where is she now?  What is her name?  Why didn’t you bring her home?” and out of breath with her rapid questioning, Edith sat down again, while Richard laughingly replied, “Where shall I begin to answer all your queries?  Shall I take them in order?  I found out all about her in New York.”

“That explains your scouring the alleys and lanes as Victor said you did,” interrupted Edith, and Richard rejoined rather sharply, “What does he know about it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” returned Edith, anxious to shield Victor from his master’s anger.  “I asked him what you did in New York, and he told me that.  Go on—­what is her name?”

“Eloise Temple.  Her mother was a Swede, and her father an American, much older than his wife.”

“Eloise—­Eloise—­Eloise.”

Edith repealed it three times.

“Where have I heard that name before?  Oh, I know.  I heard Kitty Maynard telling the story to Mrs. Atherton.  Where is she, did you say, and how does she look?”

“She is with the family who adopted her as their own, for her mother is dead.  Eloise is an orphan, Edith,” and again the broad hand touched the shining hair, pityingly this time, while the voice which spoke of the mother was sad and low.

Suddenly a strange, fanciful idea flashed on Edith’s mind, and looking into Richard’s face she asked, “How old is Eloise?”