“Well?” asked Orth, kindly.  This American woman thought him the ideal gentleman, although the mistress of the estate on which she visited called him a boor and a snob.

“It is—­well—­you must know—­you can imagine—­that her brothers and sisters just worship Blanche.  They save their dimes to buy her everything she wants—­or used to want.  Heaven knows what will satisfy her now, although I can’t see that she’s one bit spoiled.  But she’s just like a religion to them; they’re not much on church.  I’ll tell you, sir, what I couldn’t say to any one else, not even to these relations who’ve been so kind to me—­but there’s wildness, just a streak, in all my children, and I believe, I know, it’s Blanche that keeps them straight.  My girls get bitter, sometimes; work all the week and little fun, not caring for common men and no chance to marry gentlemen; and sometimes they break out and talk dreadful; then, when they’re over it, they say they’ll live for Blanche—­they’ve said it over and over, and they mean it.  Every sacrifice they’ve made for her—­and they’ve made many—­has done them good.  It isn’t that Blanche ever says a word of the preachy sort, or has anything of the Sunday-school child about her, or even tries to smooth them down when they’re excited.  It’s just herself.  The only thing she ever does is sometimes to draw herself up and look scornful, and that nearly kills them.  Little as she is, they’re crazy about having her respect.  I’ve grown superstitious about her.  Until she came I used to get frightened, terribly, sometimes, and I believe she came for that.  So—­you see!  I know Blanche is too fine for us and ought to have the best; but, then, they are to be considered, too.  They have their rights, and they’ve got much more good than bad in them.  I don’t know!  I don’t know!  It’s kept me awake many nights.”

Orth rose abruptly.  “Perhaps you will take some further time to think it over,” he said.  “You can stay a few weeks longer—­the matter cannot be so pressing as that.”

The woman rose.  “I’ve thought this,” she said; “let Blanche decide.  I believe she knows more than any of us.  I believe that whichever way she decided would be right.  I won’t say anything to her, so you won’t think I’m working on her feelings; and I can trust you.  But she’ll know.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Orth, sharply.  “There is nothing uncanny about the child.  She is not yet seven years old.  Why should you place such a responsibility upon her?”

“Do you think she’s like other children?”

“I know nothing of other children.”

“I do, sir.  I’ve raised six.  And I’ve seen hundreds of others.  I never was one to be a fool about my own, but Blanche isn’t like any other child living—­I’m certain of it.”

“What do you think?”

And the woman answered, according to her lights:  “I think she’s an angel, and came to us because we needed her.”

“And I think she is Blanche Mortlake working out the last of her salvation,” thought the author; but he made no reply, and was alone in a moment.