remain in England for a year.  He sent her theatre tickets every week, and placed a horse and phaeton at her disposal.  She was enjoying herself and seeing less and less of Blanche.  He took the child to Bournemouth for a fortnight, and again to Scotland, both of which outings benefited as much as they pleased her.  She had begun to tyrannize over him amiably, and she carried herself quite royally.  But she was always sweet and truthful, and these qualities, combined with that something in the depths of her mind which defied his explorations, held him captive.  She was devoted to him, and cared for no other companion, although she was demonstrative to her mother when they met.

It was in the tenth month of this idyl of the lonely man and the lonely child that Mrs. Root flurriedly entered the library of Chillingsworth, where Orth happened to be alone.

“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “I must go home.  My daughter Grace writes me—­she should have done it before—­that the boys are not behaving as well as they should—­she didn’t tell me, as I was having such a good time she just hated to worry me—­Heaven knows I’ve had enough worry—­but now I must go—­I just couldn’t stay—­boys are an awful responsibility—­girls ain’t a circumstance to them, although mine are a handful sometimes.”

Orth had written about too many women to interrupt the flow.  He let her talk until she paused to recuperate her forces.  Then he said quietly: 

“I am sorry this has come so suddenly, for it forces me to broach a subject at once which I would rather have postponed until the idea had taken possession of you by degrees—­”

“I know what it is you want to say, sir,” she broke in, “and I’ve reproached myself that I haven’t warned you before, but I didn’t like to be the one to speak first.  You want Blanche—­of course, I couldn’t help seeing that; but I can’t let her go, sir, indeed, I can’t.”

“Yes,” he said, firmly, “I want to adopt Blanche, and I hardly think you can refuse, for you must know how greatly it will be to her advantage.  She is a wonderful child; you have never been blind to that; she should have every opportunity, not only of money, but of association.  If I adopt her legally, I shall, of course, make her my heir, and—­there is no reason why she should not grow up as great a lady as any in England.”

The poor woman turned white, and burst into tears.  “I’ve sat up nights and nights, struggling,” she said, when she could speak.  “That, and missing her.  I couldn’t stand in her light, and I let her stay.  I know I oughtn’t to, now—­I mean, stand in her light—­but, sir, she is dearer than all the others put together.”

“Then live here in England—­at least, for some years longer.  I will gladly relieve your children of your support, and you can see Blanche as often as you choose.”

“I can’t do that, sir.  After all, she is only one, and there are six others.  I can’t desert them.  They all need me, if only to keep them together—­three girls unmarried and out in the world, and three boys just a little inclined to be wild.  There is another point, sir—­I don’t exactly know how to say it.”