'Look!' said she, suddenly clapping her hands, 'it's over both of us
now.'

'What is it?' I said.

'The Dukkeripen,' she said, 'the Golden Hand. Sinfi and Rhona both
say the Golden Hand brings luck: what _is_ luck?'

I looked up at the little cloud which to me seemed more like a golden
feather than a golden hand. But I soon bent my eyes down again to
look at her.

While I stood looking at her, the tall figure of a man came out of
the church. This was Tom Wynne. Besides being the organist of Raxton
'New Church,' Tom was also (for a few extra shillings a week)
custodian of the 'Old Church,' this deserted pile within whose
precincts we now were. Tom's features wore an expression of virtuous
indignation which puzzled me, and evidently frightened the little
girl. He locked the door, and walked unsteadily towards us. He seemed
surprised to see me there, and his features relaxed into a bland
civility.

'This is (hiccup) Master Aylwin, Winifred,' he said.

The child looked at me again with the same smile. Her alarm had fled.

'This is my little daughter Winifred,' said Tom, with a pompous bow.

I was astonished. I never knew that Wynne had a daughter, for
intimate as he and I had become, he had actually never mentioned his