But she only lowered her head and turned away, and he, fearing to frighten or repel her, apologized for his abruptness, restored the outer picture to its place, and led her from the gallery.

He sent her at once to the nursery, and when she came down to luncheon and took her place at his right hand, she was as natural and childlike as ever.  For some days he restrained his curiosity, but one evening, as they were sitting before the fire in the hall listening to the storm, and just after he had told her the story of the erl-king, he took her on his knee and asked her gently if she would not tell him what had been in her thoughts when he had drawn her brilliant future.  Again her face turned gray, and she dropped her eyes.

“I cannot,” she said.  “I—­perhaps—­I don’t know.”

“Was it what I suggested?”

She shook her head, then looked at him with a shrinking appeal which forced him to drop the subject.

He went the next day alone to the gallery, and looked long at the portrait of the woman.  She stirred no response in him.  Nor could he feel that the woman of Blanche’s future would stir the man in him.  The paternal was all he had to give, but that was hers forever.

He went out into the park and found Blanche digging in her garden, very dirty and absorbed.  The next afternoon, however, entering the hall noiselessly, he saw her sitting in her big chair, gazing out into nothing visible, her whole face settled in melancholy.  He asked her if she were ill, and she recalled herself at once, but confessed to feeling tired.  Soon after this he noticed that she lingered longer in the comfortable depths of her chair, and seldom went out, except with himself.  She insisted that she was quite well, but after he had surprised her again looking as sad as if she had renounced every joy of childhood, he summoned from London a doctor renowned for his success with children.

The scientist questioned and examined her.  When she had left the room he shrugged his shoulders.

“She might have been born with ten years of life in her, or she might grow up into a buxom woman,” he said.  “I confess I cannot tell.  She appears to be sound enough, but I have no X-rays in my eyes, and for all I know she may be on the verge of decay.  She certainly has the look of those who die young.  I have never seen so spiritual a child.  But I can put my finger on nothing.  Keep her out-of-doors, don’t give her sweets, and don’t let her catch anything if you can help it.”

Orth and the child spent the long warm days of summer under the trees of the park, or driving in the quiet lanes.  Guests were unbidden, and his pen was idle.  All that was human in him had gone out to Blanche.  He loved her, and she was a perpetual delight to him.  The rest of the world received the large measure of his indifference.  There was no further change in her, and apprehension slept and let him sleep.  He had persuaded Mrs. Root to