He reformed Blanche’s accent and vocabulary, and read to her out of books which would have addled the brains of most little maids of six; but she seemed to enjoy them, although she seldom made a comment.  He was always ready to play games with her, but she was a gentle little thing, and, moreover, tired easily.  She preferred to sit in the depths of a big chair, toasting her bare toes at the log-fire in the hall, while her friend read or talked to her.  Although she was thoughtful, and, when left to herself, given to dreaming, his patient observation could detect nothing uncanny about her.  Moreover, she had a quick sense of humor, she was easily amused, and could laugh as merrily as any child in the world.  He was resigning all hope of further development on the shadowy side when one day he took her to the picture-gallery.

It was the first warm day of summer.  The gallery was not heated, and he had not dared to take his frail visitor into its chilly spaces during the winter and spring.  Although he had wished to see the effect of the picture on the child, he had shrunk from the bare possibility of the very developments the mental part of him craved; the other was warmed and satisfied for the first time, and held itself aloof from disturbance.  But one day the sun streamed through the old windows, and, obeying a sudden impulse, he led Blanche to the gallery.

It was some time before he approached the child of his earlier love.  Again he hesitated.  He pointed out many other fine pictures, and Blanche smiled appreciatively at his remarks, that were wise in criticism and interesting in matter.  He never knew just how much she understood, but the very fact that there were depths in the child beyond his probing riveted his chains.

Suddenly he wheeled about and waved his hand to her prototype.  “What do you think of that?” he asked.  “You remember, I told you of the likeness the day I met you.”

She looked indifferently at the picture, but he noticed that her color changed oddly; its pure white tone gave place to an equally delicate gray.

“I have seen it before,” she said.  “I came in here one day to look at it.  And I have been quite often since.  You never forbade me,” she added, looking at him appealingly, but dropping her eyes quickly.  “And I like the little girl—­and the boy—­very much.”

“Do you?  Why?”

“I don’t know”—­a formula in which she had taken refuge before.  Still her candid eyes were lowered; but she was quite calm.  Orth, instead of questioning, merely fixed his eyes upon her, and waited.  In a moment she stirred uneasily, but she did not laugh nervously, as another child would have done.  He had never seen her self-possession ruffled, and he had begun to doubt he ever should.  She was full of human warmth and affection.  She seemed made for love, and every creature who came within her ken adored her, from the author himself down to the litter of puppies presented to her by the stable-boy a few weeks since; but her serenity would hardly be enhanced by death.