tell you is that
an ancestor of little Blanche went to wreck and ruin because of some
fine lady's doings, and killed himself. The story is that his boys
turned out bad. One of them saw his crime, and never got over the
shock; he was foolish like, after. The mother was a poor scared sort of
creature, and hadn't much influence over the other boy. There seemed to
be a blight on all the man's descendants, until one of them went to
America. Since then, they haven't prospered, exactly, but they've done
better, and they don't drink so heavy."

"They haven't done so well," remarked a worn patient-looking woman. Orth
typed her as belonging to the small middle-class of an interior town of
the eastern United States.

"You are not the child's mother?"

"Yes, sir. Everybody is surprised; you needn't apologize. She doesn't
look like any of us, although her brothers and sisters are good enough
for anybody to be proud of. But we all think she strayed in by mistake,
for she looks like any lady's child, and, of course, we're only
middle-class."

Orth gasped. It was the first time he had ever heard a native American
use the term middle-class with a personal application. For the moment,
he forgot the child. His analytical mind raked in the new specimen. He
questioned, and learned that the woman's husband had kept a hat store in
Rome, New York; that her boys were clerks, her girls in stores, or
type-writing. They kept her and little Blanche--who had come after her
other children were well grown--in comfort; and they were all very happy
together. The boys broke out, occasionally; but, on the whole, were the
best in the world, and her girls were worthy of far better than they
had. All were robust, except Blanche. "She coming so late, when I was no
longer young, makes her delicate," she remarked, with a slight blush,
the signal of her chaste Americanism; "but I guess she'll get along all
right. She couldn't have better care if she was a queen's child."

Orth, who had gratefully consumed the bread and milk, rose. "Is that
really all you can tell me?" he asked.

"That's all," replied the daughter of the house. "And you couldn't pry
open father's mouth."

Orth shook hands cordially with all of them, for he could be charming
when he chose. He offered to escort the little girl back to her
playmates in the wood, and she took prompt possession of his hand. As he
was leaving, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Root. "Why did you call her
Blanche?" he