“You are not feeling well,” she said, more in the form of a statement than as a question, looking at her anxiously.  “What can I do for you?”

Mrs. Gorham smiled quietly as she impulsively drew Alice to her and kissed her.

“There’s nothing the matter, dear,” she answered, pleased with the intuition which prompted the anxiety; “there was something about the play which brought back old memories and they hurt me—­that is all.”

“Dear heart,” was all the girl replied, yet the words brought grateful tears to Eleanor’s eyes.

“Are you tired?” she asked, suddenly, with an appeal which caused Alice to look at her inquiringly, but she did not wait for the unnecessary negative.  “Then come into my room and let us have a little talk before we go to bed.”

As Eleanor sat down Alice threw herself on the floor at her feet, and resting her elbows upon the convenient knees, with her face upon her hands, she looked up expectantly.

“I love these cozy talks,” she said.  “There is something about this particular hour of the night which makes anything which happens in it of the greatest importance.  How beautiful you are!  I love just to look at you—­no wonder father worships you!”

“You are a sweet child, Alice,” Eleanor said, stroking the soft hair affectionately, while unfastening the loose coils until they fell over her shoulders in masses of rippling gold.  “You have no idea how much you have done to make my life as happy as it is now.  What has your father ever told you about me?”

“Nothing, dear, except that you had suffered much before he met you, and that it was our privilege to try to make you forget the past.”

“Was that all?”

“All about you.  He told me how happy you had made him, so of course I loved you at once.”

“And you never asked any questions?”

Alice looked surprised.  “Why, no; if father had wished to tell me any more he would have done so without my asking.”

“I am glad,” Eleanor said, simply.  “It is better for me to tell you myself.”

Mrs. Gorham paused, and Alice realized that this was not the time to interrupt.  Eleanor seemed to be bracing herself as for an ordeal, yet when she spoke the words came with perfect calmness.

“You were ten years old when your mother died,” she said.

The girl’s face saddened.  “Yes, just Pat’s age now; and the next four years were so lonely until you came.  I try never to think of them.  Pat was too young to give me any companionship, so I was virtually alone with my governess.  Father never realized my unhappiness.  He was so busy with his own matters that, young as I was, I knew that he must not have mine to worry about.”

“Those were the years in which I suffered, too,” Eleanor replied, quietly.  “Perhaps that is what drew us so closely together from the first.  Four years of torture!” she continued, more to herself than to the girl before her.