“daddy dear?”

nancy’s accent was a little wishful, as she turned her back on the habitant in the courtyard and faced her father by the dressing-table.

“yes.” the doctor was absently rummaging among his neckties.

“can’t you spare time to go out with me, this afternoon?”

“where?”

“anywhere. lorette, or beaumanoir, or even just up and down the city. you really have seen nothing of quebec, daddy, and i—once in a while i get lonely.”

the doctor dropped his neckties and looked up sharply.

“lonely, nancy? i am sorry. do you want to go home?”

“oh, no!” the startled emphasis of her accent left no doubt of its truthfulness.

“then what is it, child?”

“nothing; only—it is just as i said. now and then i feel a little lonesome.”

the doctor smiled at his own reflection in the mirror.

“i thought brock and the frenchman looked out for that, nancy.”

“they do,” she returned desperately; “and that is just what worries me. it makes me feel as if i needed to have some family back of me.”

gravely and steadily the doctor looked down into her troubled eyes.

“has anything—?”

nancy raised her head haughtily, as she answered him.

“no, daddy; trust me for that. the boys are gentlemen, and, besides, they treat me as if i were a mere cousin, or something else quite unromantic. i like them, and i like to talk with them. it is only—”

her father understood her.

“i think you do not need to be anxious, nancy. over the top of my manuscripts, i keep a sharp eye out for my girl. and, besides, it is a rare advantage for you to have the friendship of the lady. even if i were not here, i would trust you implicitly to her care.”

nancy nodded in slow approval.

“yes, and she is one of us. sometimes i am half jealous of her. m. st. jacques is her devoted slave.”

“what about brock?”

nancy laughed with a carelessness which was not entirely feigned.

“mr. brock burns incense before every woman, young or old. he is adorable to us all, and we all adore him. still, he never really takes us in earnest, you know.”

“i’m not so sure of that,” the doctor said, with sudden decision.

“you like mr. brock?” she questioned.

“yes. don’t you?”

“i should be an ungrateful wretch, if i didn’t.” then she added, “speaking of ungrateful wretches, daddy, was anything ever more strange than the whole barth episode?”

“haven’t you told him yet?”

“told him! how could i? it is all i can do not to betray myself by accident; i would die rather than tell him deliberately. but i can’t see how the man can help knowing.”

“extreme egotism coupled with extreme myopia,” the doctor suggested.

“exactly. if it were one of us alone, i shouldn’t think so much about it; but it is a mystery to me how he can see us both, without having the truth dawn upon him.”

the doctor pondered for a moment.

“do you know, nancy, i believe i haven’t once come into contact with the fellow. except for the dining-room, i’ve not even been into the same room with him. it is really wonderful how little one can see of one’s neighbors.”

nancy faced back to the window with a jerk.

“and also how much,” she added mutinously.

but the doctor pursued his own train of thought.

“after all, nancy, it may be our place to make the first advances. we are older—at least, i am—and there are two of us. he may be waiting for us to recognize him. i believe i’ll look him up, this evening, and tell him how we happen to be here.”

nancy faced out again with a second jerk.

“daddy, if you dare to do such a thing!”

“why not? after all, i rather liked barth.”

“i didn’t.”

“but surely you thought he was a gentleman,” the doctor urged.

“after a fashion,” nancy admitted guardedly. “still, now that i have met him, i’d rather let bygones be bygones. it would be maddening, for instance, just when i was sailing past him on my way in to supper, to have him remember how i used to coil strips of red flannel around his aristocratic ankle. no; we’ll let the dead past bury its bandages and water them with its liniment, daddy. if i am ever to know mr. cecil barth now, it must be as a new acquaintance from london, not as my old patient from sainte anne-de-beaupré.”

“and yet,” the doctor still spoke meditatively; “barth appreciated you, nancy, and he was certainly grateful.”

the girl laughed wilfully.

“he appreciated his hired nurse, daddy, and he was grateful to me to the extent of paying me my wages. by the way, i’d like that money.”

“for what?”

“i would drop it into the lap of the good sainte anne. it is no small miracle to have delivered a british lion into the hands of an american and allowed her to minister to his wounded paw. it was a great experience, daddy, and, now i think of it, i would like to reward the saint according to her merits.”

the doctor’s eyes brightened, as he looked at her merry face.

“wait,” he advised her. “even now, the miracle may not be complete.”

she ran after him and caught him by the lapels of his collar.

“oh, don’t talk in riddles,” she protested. “and, anyway, promise me you won’t tell any tales to mr. barth.”

“my dear child, i have something to do, besides forcing my acquaintance upon stray young englishmen who don’t care for it.”

she kissed him impetuously.

“spoken like your daughter’s own father!” she said approvingly. “now, if you really won’t go out to play with me, i’m going to the library to read the new magazines.”

an hour later, nancy was sitting by a window, harper’s in her lap and her eyes fixed on the dark blue laurentides to the northward. the girl spent many a leisure hour in the grim old building, once a prison, but now the home of a little library whose walls breathed a mingled atmosphere of mustiness and learning. ancient folios were not lacking; but kipling was on the upper shelves and one of the tables was littered with rows of the latest magazines.

to-day, however, nancy’s mind was not upon her story, nor yet upon the laurentides beneath her thoughtful gaze. the episode of the previous night had left a strong impression upon her. it was the first time she had seen the three men together; she had watched them with shrewd, impartial eyes. britisher, canadian, and frenchman, catholic and protestant: three more distinct types could scarcely have been gathered into the narrow limits of an impromptu theatre party. beyond the simple attributes of manliness and breeding, they possessed scarcely a trait in common. in two of them, nancy saw little to deplore; in all three, she saw a good deal to like.

barth she dismissed with a brief shake of her head. he was undeniably plucky, far more plucky than at first she had supposed. to her energetic, healthy mind, there had been nothing so very bad about a sprained ankle. a little pain, a short captivity, and that was the end of it. once or twice it had seemed to her that barth had been needlessly depressed by the situation, needlessly unresponsive to her efforts to arouse him. it was only during the past few days that she had seen what it really meant: the physical pain and weariness to be borne as best it might, in a strange city and cut off from any friendly companionship. it even occurred dimly to her mind that barth was not wholly responsible for his chilly inability to make new friends, that it was just possible he regretted the fact as keenly as any one else. moreover, nancy was just. she admitted, as she looked back over those ten days at sainte anne-de-beaupré, that barth had been singularly free from fault-finding and complaint. she also admitted that his ignoring of their past relations was no mere matter of social snobbery. mr. cecil barth was totally ignorant of the identity of his former nurse. having exonerated him from the charge of certain sins, nancy dismissed him with a shake of her head.

upon brock and st. jacques, her mind rested longer. until the night before, they had seemed to her to be a pair of boon comrades. while their holiday lasted, they would make merry together. when she turned her face to the southward, the bonds of their acquaintance would drop apart, and their lives would spin on in their individual orbits. now, all at once, she questioned. the naked impulses of humanity show themselves in times of danger. at last night’s alarm, both brock and st. jacques had turned instinctively to her protection. then the difference had showed itself. brock had given his whole care and strength to her alone. st. jacques had swiftly assured himself that she was in safe hands; then, with a caution to brock to guard the lady, he had thrown himself to the rescue of mr. cecil barth, not because he liked barth, but because his instincts were all for the succoring of the weak. all night long, nancy had gloried in brock’s strength and in the singleness of his devotion. nevertheless, she was woman enough to glory still more in the more prosaic gallantry of the dark-browed little frenchman. as a rule, the pretty girl in evening dress is prone to inspire more chivalry than a taciturn britisher of chilly manners and unflattering tongue.

suddenly nancy buried her nose in her story. barth had come into the library and seated himself at the table close at her elbow. when she looked up again, he had put on his glasses and was waiting to meet her eye. she nodded to him, and, before she could go back to her magazine again, he had turned his chair until it faced her own. over the blue laurentides the twilight was dropping fast. upstairs in the dim gallery the librarian was moving slowly here and there among his books. otherwise the place was quite deserted, save for the two young people sitting in the sunset glow.

“and is this one of your haunts, too, miss howard?” barth asked, as he tossed his magazine back to the table.

the matter-of-course friendliness of his tone struck a new note in their acquaintance. nancy liked it.

“yes, i often come here, when it is too stormy for walking,” she assented.

“you walk a great deal?”

“endlessly. still, it doesn’t take so many steps to circumnavigate this little city, i find. i love to explore the out-of-the-way nooks and corners; don’t you?”

“i did, until i was cut off in my prime. i had only had two weeks, before disaster overtook me.”

this time, nancy was mindful of her incognito.

“you broke your ankle, i think?” she said interrogatively.

“sprained it. it amounts to the same thing in the end.”

“was it long ago?”

“three weeks. sometimes three weeks become infinite.”

“was it so painful?”

“yes, especially to my pride. it’s so babyish to be ill.”

“but you weren’t babyish at all,” nancy protested courteously.

barth stared blankly at her for a minute. then he laughed.

“you flatter me. still, it’s not well to take too much on trust, miss howard. but i am glad if i’ve gained any reputation for pluck.”

nancy interposed hastily.

“how did it happen?”

“i don’t know. the last i remember beforehand, i was standing on the steps of sainte anne, watching a pilgrimage getting itself blessed. the next i knew, i was lying on my back on the ground, with my ankle twisted into a knot, and my future nurse taking full possession of my case. that was your namesake, miss howard.”

“indeed. was—was she—pretty?” nancy inquired, not quite certain what she was expected to say next.

“i never knew. my glasses were lost in the scrimmage, and i can’t see ten inches from my nose without them. i couldn’t very well ask her to come forward and be inspected at any such range as that. i was sorry, too. the girl really took very good care of me, and i grew quite fond of her. behind her back, i used to call her my good sainte anne. she was nancy, you know.”

nancy’s magazine slid to the floor.

“did she know it?” she asked, smiling a little at her awkward efforts to reach the book.

“allow me,” barth said gravely. “no; i am not sure that she did.”

“when you meet her, next time, you can tell her,” nancy advised him.

barth shook his head.

“i am afraid i never shall meet her.”

“the world is very tiny,” nancy observed sententiously. “as a rule, the same person is bound to cross one’s trail twice.”

“and, besides, even if i did meet her, how could i ever know her?”

“how could you help it?” she queried, smiling into his face which seemed to her, that afternoon, to be curiously boyish and likable.

“but i have no idea how she looked.”

“you would know her voice.”

“oh, no. i notice voices; but i rarely remember them.”

“but her name?”

“it is of no use, just nancy howard. such a commonplace sort of name as that is no clue. why, you may be a nancy howard, yourself, for anything i know to the contrary.”

nancy laughed, as she rose.

“i might also be your nurse,” she suggested. “stranger things than that have happened, even in my experience, mr. barth. however, when you do meet your nancy howard, i hope you will tell her that you liked her.”

the young fellow looked up at her a little eagerly.

“do you suppose she would mind about it?”

“women are generally glad to know when they are liked,” nancy said sagely.

“but most likely she knew it, without my telling.”

nancy shook her head.

“more likely she never guessed it. you probably lorded it over her and treated her like a servant.”

to her surprise, barth blushed scarlet. then he answered frankly,—

“how you do get at things, miss howard! the fact is, i tipped the girl, one night. it seemed to me then merely the usual thing to do. since then, i haven’t been so sure. she was quite a lady, and—”

nancy interrupted him ruthlessly.

“how did she take it?” she demanded.

“as she would have taken a blow on the cheek. i meant it well. i had given her a bad day of it, and i thought it was only decent to make up for it. i wish now i hadn’t; but i couldn’t well ask for the money again, though i knew from the way her heels hit the floor that she was wishing she could throw it back at me. do you know,” mr. cecil barth added thoughtfully; “that i sometimes think our english ways aren’t always understood over here.”

and, in that instant, nancy forgave the existence of the golden guinea, still reposing among her superfluous hairpins.

“not always,” she assented. “still, if you were to tell your nancy howard what you have just told me, i think she would understand.”

“oh, but i couldn’t do that,” barth protested.

“i don’t see why not. very likely she is no more formidable than i am. anyway, i advise you to try.”

as she stood smiling down at him, there came a click, and the dusky library was flooded with the blaze from a dozen electric bulbs. they both winced at the unexpected glare; then nancy’s eyes and barth’s glasses met in a steady gaze. his face was earnest; hers merry and altogether winsome. suddenly she held out her hand.

“good by, mr. barth,” she said kindly. “i am glad you have told me about this.”

he rose to his feet.

“you are going? may i walk back with you?”

“thank you so much for offering. it would be a pleasure; but mr. brock is waiting outside to take me for a turn on the terrace.”

and, the next instant, barth was left alone with the librarian.