I felt a sense of impertinence in putting the question, but my curiosity was irresistible.
"Yes," answered Castleman, hesitatingly; then, as if hurrying from the subject, he continued, "Her mother is dead, and the girl lives chiefly under my roof." I wanted to ask other questions concerning Yolanda, but I kept silent.

I had begun to suspect that she was not what she passed for--a burgher girl; but Castleman was a straightforward, truthful man, and his words satisfied me.

I had, at any rate, to be content with them, since Yolanda's affairs were none of mine.

Had I not been sure that Max's training and inheritance gave him a shield against her darts, she and her affairs would have given me deep concern.

At that time I had all the match-making impulses of an old woman, and was determined that no woman should step between Max and the far-off, almost impossible Princess of Burgundy.
When we resumed our journey the next morning Yolanda was demure, grave, and serious; but the bright sun soon had its way with her, and within a half-hour after leaving the village she was riding beside Max, laughing, singing, and flashing her eyes upon him with a lustre that dimmed the sun--at least, so Max thought, and probably he was right.