“Yes, dear, tell me!” he murmured, abstractedly, scarcely thinking of what he was saying, and only conscious of the thrill and ecstasy of love which seemed to him the one thing necessary for existence in earth or heaven.

And so, with her hands still warmly held in his, she told him all.  In a sad voice, with lowered eyes and quivering lips, she related her plaintive little history, disclosing her unbaptised shame,—­ her unowned parentage,—­her desperately forlorn and lonely condition.  And Robin listened—­amazed and perplexed.

“It seems to be all my fault,” concluded Innocent, sorrowfully—­ “and yet it is not really so!  Of course I ought never to have been born—­but I couldn’t help it, could I?  And now it seems quite wrong for me to even live!—­I am not wanted—­and ever since I was twelve years old your Uncle has only kept me out of charity—­”

But at this Robin started as though some one had struck him.

“Innocent!” he exclaimed—­“Do not say such a thing!—­do not think it!  Uncle Hugo has loved you!—­and you—­you have loved him!”

She drew her hands away from his and covered her face.

“I know!—­I know!” and her tears fell fast again—­“But I am not his, and he is not mine!”

Robin was silent.  The position was so unexpected and bewildering that he hardly knew what to say.  But chiefly he felt that he must try and comfort this little weeping angel, who, so far as he was concerned, held his life subservient to her charm.  He began talking softly and cheerily: 

“Why should it matter so much?” he said.  “If you do not know who you are—­if none of us know—­it may be more fortunate for you than you can imagine!  We cannot tell!  Your own father may claim you—­ your own mother—­such things are quite possible!  You may be like the princess of a fairy-tale—­rich people may come and take you away from Briar Farm and from me—­and you will be too grand to think of us any more, and I shall only be the poor farmer in your eyes—­you will wonder how you could ever have spoken to me—­”

“Robin!” Her hands dropped from her face and she looked at him in reproachful sadness.  “Why do you say this?  You know it could never be true!—­never!  If I had a father who cared for me, he would not have forgotten—­and my mother, if she were a true mother, would have tried to find me long ago!  No, Robin!—­I ought to have died when I was a baby.  No one wants me—­I am a deserted child—­’base-born,’ as your Uncle Hugo says,—­and of course he is right—­but the sin of it is not mine!”

She had such a pitiful, fragile and fair appearance, standing half in shadow and half in the mystic radiance of the moon, that Robin Clifford’s heart ached with love and longing for her.

“Sin!” he echoed—­“Sin and you have never met each other!  You are like your name, innocent of all evil!  Oh, Innocent!  If you could only care for me as I care for you!”