“Know who I am?” he continued his catechism.

“You are Mr. Rolls.”

“What makes you so sure of that, eh?”

“You were pointed out to me one evening last winter, when you were inspecting the shop with Mr. Croft.”

“Nobody had any business pointing me out.  Who did?”

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten,” said the girl, more calmly than she felt.  “It was so long ago.”

“You seem to have been dead certain he was right.”

“I took it for granted.”

“That’s dangerous, taking things for granted.  I advise you not to do it, Miss Child.”

Still he stared as she received his advice in silence.  Not a feature of the piquant, yet proud, arresting face, not a curve of the slim figure, did his old eyes miss.

“I guess you haven’t forgotten who pointed me out,” he persisted, after a pause.  “Now think again. Have you?  It might pay to remember.”

“I do not remember, sir.”  She threw up her head in the characteristic way which the other Peter knew.

“Sure nothing could make you remember?”

“I’m sure nothing could.”

“Very well, then, we must let that go for the present.  Now to another subject.  I hear you showed a good deal of pluck this morning in putting out a fire.”

“Oh, after all, it may be only that!” Win thought.

She ought to have been relieved.  But she was not certain whether relief was her most prominent emotion.  The girl did not quite know what to make of herself, and the man was not giving her much time for reflection.

“The little I did was done on the spur of the moment,” she said.  “I don’t deserve any credit.”

“Well, I may be inclined to think different when it comes to settling up.  That depends on several things.  We’ll come to ’em by and by.  You’re English, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“H-m!  You look as if you ought to have titles running in your family.  Have you got any?”

Win fancied that this must be her employer’s idea of a joke, but his face was grave, and even curiously eager.  “Not one,” she answered, smiling.

“No connections with titles?”

“Why, yes, we have some cousins afflicted in that way,” she lightly admitted, beginning to be faintly amused as well as puzzled.  “Almost every one has, in our country, I suppose.”

“What sort of title is it?”

“Oh, my father’s second cousin happens to be an earl.”

“An earl, is he?  That stands pretty high, I guess, on your side.  Any chance of your father inheriting?”

This time Win allowed herself the luxury of a laugh.  What a strange old man!  And this was Mr. Balm of Gilead’s father!

She was still in the dark as to why he had sent for her.  But it must be on account of the fire.  His curiosity was very funny.  In any one except Peter’s father she would have considered it ridiculous.  Maybe he wanted to work up a good “story” in the newspapers.  Very likely it could be turned into an “ad” for the Hands if the cousin of an English earl had saved a fellow employee from burning up, and it would be still more thrilling if the heroine might some day turn into a haughty Lady Winifred Something.  She shook her head, looking charming.  Even old Peter, staring so intently, must have admitted that.