She was that beautiful that everybody noticed her. But not the same as me—finer like. All pink and white, and eyes as blue as harebells."
"And then she met your father, eh?"
"You'll never tell a soul one word of this? I've never told anyone here but May and Jimmy. Oh, please tell me about Jimmy. Is he well? And has he taken out another girl yet?"
Kirke replied curtly: "We'll talk of Jimmy later. . . . So your mother lairned to dance, and a handsome young man—or oldish, maybe—noticed her? Is that so, Delight?"
"He came with some Russian dancers, and he had grand dark eyes, and he could dance—dear me! Mother told Gran he could leap his own height in the air, and stamp and twirl and bound till he took your breath away. All London came to see him. And his muscles was like iron and his hair like beautiful black fur. Mother told Gran about him just once, after she'd come home, and then she never spoke of him again. I reckon her heart was broken. And Granny hated the very thought of him, but she told me 'cause she thought I'd a right to know."
"Weel, weel," said Kirke, staring meditatively between the horse's ears, "it's an interesting tale, and it's safe with me, you may depend." He was gratified by this revelation of the girl's origin. It pleased him to think of that bounding, leaping Russian giving his grand dark eyes to this sweet Delight by his side. No wonder dancing came naturally to her! No wonder she had a strange, exotic charm! Somerset and Moscow! a strange mixture.
"And who gave ye the name?" he asked.
"Delight? Mother named me that before I was born, because he used to call her his delight in his queer English—not much better than baby-talk, and she told Gran that
