"No," she said, "you would find nothing there. I suppose if I had died
nobody would ever have known who I am. How curious that would have
been!"

Was she amused, or was she saddened by the thought? I could not tell.

"It would have been very painful to Tardif and to me," I said. "It must
be very painful to your friends, whoever they are, not to know what has
become of you. Give me permission to write to them. There can scarcely
be reasons sufficient for you to separate yourself from them like this.
Besides, you cannot go on living in a fisherman's cottage; you were not
born to it--"

"How do you know?" she asked, quickly, with a sharp tone in her voice.

It was somewhat difficult to answer that question. There was nothing to
indicate what position she had been used to. I had seen no token of
wealth about her room, which was as homely as any other cottage chamber.
Her conversation had been the simple, childish talk of an invalid
recovering from a serious illness, and had scarcely proved her to be an
educated person. Yet there was something in her face and tones and
manner which, as plainly to Tardif as to me, stamped this runaway girl
as a lady.

"Let me write to your friends," I urged, waiving the question. "It is
not fit for you to remain here. I beg of you to allow me to communicate
with them."

Her face quivered like a child's when it is partly frightened and partly