Irene pulled with swift, sure strokes across the summer lake. The lake was one of the great features of the place. It was a quarter of a mile wide, and half a mile in length, and had been carefully attended to by owner after owner for generations; so that groups of water-lilies grew here, and swans arched their proud white necks and spread out their feathered plumes. Little Agnes had never seen anything so lovely before, and when she bent forward and saw her own reflection in the water she gave a scream of childish pleasure.

"Oh, how happy sister Emily must be!" was her remark.

Again Irene made the strange answer, "Don't ask for a day or two."

Then little Agnes raised grave dark eyes to Irene's face.

"But any one would be happy with you," she said. "To look at you is such a comfort."

"Tell me about yourself," said Irene suddenly, shipping her oars, bending forward, and fixing her intensely bright eyes on the child.

She did not feel at all like a changeling now. That wild thing in her breast was still. She felt somewhat like a mother, somewhat like an ordinary little girl might feel towards a loved baby-sister, or even towards a doll. This new sense of protection had a marvelous effect upon her. She would not have minded if little Agnes had crept into her arms and laid her head on her breast.

"Tell me what you did before you came here," she said.

"But don't you know?" said Agnes. "Sister Emily has been living with you for a long time. She must have told you about me."

"I am ashamed to say I never asked her anything about you."

"I suppose that is because you are very thoughtful. You were determined—yes, determined—not to give her pain. She is always so sad when she thinks of us; but Hughie and I are not really unhappy. We don't mind things now."

"What do you mean by 'now'? Tell me—do tell me."

"Oh, we are at school. Hughie is at a pretty good school, although it is rather rough. He is learning hard. He is to be apprenticed to a trade some day. Dear sister Emily cannot afford to bring him up as a gentleman; but she is saving every penny of her money to put him into a really good trade. Perhaps he will be a bookbinder, or perhaps a cabinetmaker."

"But people of that sort are not gentry," said Irene. Then she colored and bit her lips.

Little Agnes had seen so much of the rough side of life that she was not at all offended.

"Sister Emily says that she could not afford to bring us up as a lady and gentleman, and so we are to be trained for something else. I think she is going to put me into a shop."

"Indeed she won't," said Irene fiercely, "for I won't let her."

There was a new tone in her voice which frightened little Agnes. She sank back among her soft cushions.

"You mustn't be angry with her, for she is the best sister in all the world. No one else would work so hard to support us. You know, when father and mother died there wasn't a penny-piece to keep us, and we were both very young; and if it hadn't been for Emily I might have been sent to one of those dreadful charity schools. But as it is, I am being taught, and now I am staying at this lovely place for the holidays, and I have met you, and I think you are a sort of angel."

Irene burst into a ringing laugh.

"You're the very first person who has ever called me that," she said. "Now look here, Agnes; there's just one thing I want to ask you."

"What is that?" asked little Agnes.

"Don't speak to the servants about me, nor even to your beloved Emily, nor much to Rosamund. You think certain things about me. Other people may not agree with you."

"I should like to fight them if they differed," said the little girl.

"Well, that's all right; you can fight them by-and-by if you like; but at present say nothing about me. I am your friend; it will depend on whether you keep silence or not whether I continue to be your friend. As long as I am your friend you are safe and happy here, so that is all right."

Little Agnes, never having heard anything about Irene except that she was her sister Emily's pupil, believed these words, and continued to look with a fascinated gaze at the white-throated swans, at the beautiful water-lilies, and at the calm reflection of the boat and their two selves in the water. She saw nothing whatever of the rapid stream in the centre of the lake, where poor Miss Carter had almost met her death, nor did she see any fierce or turbulent side to Irene's erratic nature.

By-and-by the bell sounded, and Irene exclaimed, "I declare it is time for us to go in. You are much too young to sit up to dinner. I will see that you are put to bed, and have something very nice for you to eat, and I will sit with you until you fall asleep."

"But you will want your own dinner," said little Agnes.

"My own dinner doesn't matter in the very least. I will have a snatch of something when I go downstairs. Now come along."

She began to ply her oars again, and in a minute or two they had landed, the boat had been moored, and the two children went up to the house.

Hughie was standing on the steps, blowing a loud whistle through his fingers.

"Hullo, Aggie!" he cried. "Why, you are looking as fresh as possible; and Miss Irene—the wonderful Miss Irene"—here he gave a mocking bow to Irene—"has taken you under her wing. I can tell you sister Emily is pretty jealous."

Irene looked at him with small favor.

"Will you please let us pass?" she said.

The boy made another sweeping bow, and Irene and little Agnes passed into the house. They went upstairs. Irene took her little friend to the pink room next to her own. Here all her things had been unpacked already by Miss Frost herself, who had now, however, vanished. Agnes, tired, happy, pleased with her new friend, fearing nothing, trusting all things, was soon got into bed, and Irene sat by her............