“That is all very sad for me if it is true,” she said—­“but it is not my fault.  I could not help it.  Dad couldn’t help it either—­he did not know what to do.  He expected that I might be claimed and taken away any day—­and he had no idea what name to give me—­ except Innocent—­which is a name I suppose no girl ever had before.  He used to get money from time to time in registered envelopes, bearing different foreign postmarks—­and there was always a slip of paper inside with the words ‘For Innocent’ written on it.  So that name has been my only name.  You see, it was very difficult for him—­poor Dad!—­besides, he did not believe in baptism—­”

“Then he was an infidel!” declared Mr. Medwin, hotly.

Her serious blue eyes regarded him reproachfully.

“I don’t think you should say that—­it isn’t quite kind on your part,” she replied—­“He always thanked God for prosperity, and never complained when things went wrong—­that is not being an infidel!  Even when he knew he was hopelessly ill, he never worried anyone about it—­he was only just a little afraid-and that was perfectly natural.  We’re all a little afraid, you know—­though we pretend we’re not—­none of us like the idea of leaving this lovely world and the sunshine for ever.  Even Hamlet was afraid,—­ Shakespeare makes him say so.  And when one has lived all one’s life on Briar Farm—­such a sweet peaceful home!—­one can hardly fancy anything better, even in a next world!  No—­Dad was not an infidel—­please do not think such a thing!—­he only died last night—­and I feel as if it would hurt him.”

Mr. Medwin was exceedingly embarrassed and annoyed—­there was something in the girl’s quiet demeanour that suggested a certain intellectual superiority to himself.  He hummed and hawed, lurking various unpleasant throaty noises.

“Well—­to me, of course, it is a very shocking state of affairs,” he said, irritably—­“I hardly think I can be of any use—­or consolation to you in the matters you have spoken of, which are quite outside my scope altogether.  If you have anything to say about the funeral arrangements—­but I presume Mr. Clifford—­”

“Mr. Clifford is master here now,” she answered—­“He will give his own orders, and will do all that is best and wisest.  As I have told you, I am a name-less nobody, and have no right in this house at all.  I’m sorry if I have vexed or troubled you—­but as you called I thought it was right to tell you how I am situated.  You see, when poor Dad is buried I shall be going away at once—­and I had an idea you might perhaps help me—­you are God’s minister.”

He wrinkled up his brows and looked frowningly at her.

“You are leaving Briar Farm?” he asked.

“I must.  I have no right to stay.”

“Is Mr. Clifford turning you out?”

A faint, sad smile crept round the girl’s pretty, sensitive mouth.

“Ah, no!  No, indeed!  He would not turn a dog out that had once taken food from his hand,” she said.  “It is my own wish entirely.  When Dad was alive there was something for me to do in taking care of him—­but now!—­there is no need for me—­I should feel in the way—­besides, I must try to earn my own living.”