“I will pay the three guineas a week gladly,” she said.  “May I see the rooms?”

The old lady meanwhile had been studying her with great intentness, and now asked abruptly—­

“Are you an English girl?”

Innocent flushed a sudden rosy red.

“Yes.  I was brought up in the country, but all my people are dead now.  I have no friends, but I have a little money left to me—­and for the rest—­I must earn my own living.”

“Well, my dear, that won’t hurt you!” and an encouraging smile brightened Miss Leigh’s pleasantly wrinkled face.  “You shall see the rooms.  But you have not told me your name yet.”

Again Innocent blushed.

“My name is Armitage,” she said, in a low, hesitating tone—­“Ena Armitage.”

“Armitage!”—­Miss Leigh repeated the name with a kind of wondering accent—­“Armitage?  Are you any relative of the painter, Pierce Armitage?”

The girl’s heart beat quickly—­for a moment the little drawing-room seemed to whirl round her—­then she collected her forces with a strong effort and answered—­“No!”

The old lady’s wistful blue eyes, dimmed with age, yet retaining a beautiful tenderness of expression, rested upon her anxiously.

“You are quite sure?”

Repressing the feeling that prompted her to cry out—­“He was my father!” she replied—­

“I am quite sure!”

Lavinia Leigh raised her little mittened hand and pointed to the portrait standing on the harpsichord: 

“That was Pierce Armitage!” she said.  “He was a dear friend of mine”—­her voice trembled a little—­“and I should have been glad if you had been in any way connected with him.”

As she spoke Innocent turned and looked steadily at the portrait, and it seemed to her excited fancy that its eyes gave her glance for glance.  She could hardly breathe—­the threatening tears half choked her.  What strange fate was it, she thought, that had led her to a house where she looked upon her own father’s likeness for the first time!

“He was a very fine man,” continued Miss Leigh in the same half-tremulous voice—­“very gifted—­very clever!  He would have been a great artist, I think—­”

“Is he dead?” the girl asked, quietly.

“Yes—­I—­I think so—­he died abroad—­so they say, but I have never quite believed it—­I don’t know why!  Come, let me show you the rooms.  I am glad your name is Armitage.”

She led the way, walking slowly,—­Innocent followed like one in a dream.  They ascended a small staircase, softly carpeted, to a square landing, and here Miss Leigh opened a door.

“This is the sitting-room,” she said.  “You see, it has a nice bow-window with a view of the garden.  The bedroom is just beyond it—­ both lead into one another.”

Innocent looked in and could not resist giving a little exclamation of pleasure.  Everything was so clean and dainty and well kept—­it seemed to her a perfect haven of rest and shelter.  She turned to Miss Leigh in eager impulsiveness.