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Papa had a man—a harp man—go over the whole thing thoroughly. I wouldn't feel just right with Papa if it were tampered with. He hated people who fiddled with things.”

They sat silently after her outburst, but at length she looked pleadingly into his eyes. “You aren't angry with me about the string, are you, Cousin Henry? I just have deep feelings like that. I can't help it.”

“No, of course I am not angry.” She was so little and so helpless, he thought.

“Where will you be going, now that you are rich and famous and covered with honors?”

“I don't know. I want to live in an atmosphere of sure things.”

“Why, that's just the way I think,” she exclaimed. “We must be somewhat alike. Things come to you if you do not go looking for them, I say. And nearly always I know what is going to happen to me, because I hope for it and then sit still.”

“Yes,” said Henry.

“Papa's death was a great shock,” she said, and again the tears were in her eyes. “It's a terrible thing to be left alone and nearly no—no relatives or friends. Of course, the Moddyfords have been lovely to me, but they couldn't be like my own people. Oh, dear! I have been so lonely. I was glad when you came, Cousin Henry, if only because we are of one blood.” Her eyes were glistening with tears, and her underlip trembled violently.

“But you must not cry,” Henry said soothingly.