lm. Orth, instead of
questioning, merely fixed his eyes upon her, and waited. In a moment she
stirred uneasily, but she did not laugh nervously, as another child
would have done. He had never seen her self-possession ruffled, and he
had begun to doubt he ever should. She was full of human warmth and
affection. She seemed made for love, and every creature who came within
her ken adored her, from the author himself down to the litter of
puppies presented to her by the stable-boy a few weeks since; but her
serenity would hardly be enhanced by death.

She raised her eyes finally, but not to his. She looked at the portrait.

"Did you know that there was another picture behind?" she asked.

"No," replied Orth, turning cold. "How did you know it?"

"One day I touched a spring in the frame, and this picture came forward.
Shall I show you?"

"Yes!" And crossing curiosity and the involuntary shrinking from
impending phenomena was a sensation of aesthetic disgust that _he_
should be treated to a secret spring.

The little girl touched hers, and that other Blanche sprang aside so
quickly that she might have been impelled by a sharp blow from behind.
Orth narrowed his eyes and stared at what she revealed. He felt that his
own Blanche was watching him, and set his features, although his breath
was short.

There was the Lady Blanche Mortlake in the splendor of her young
womanhood, beyond a doubt. Gone were all traces of her spiritual
childhood, except, perhaps, in the shadows of the mouth; but more than
fulfilled were the promises of her mind. Assuredly, the woman had been
as brilliant and gifted as she had been restless and passionate. She
wore her very pearls with arrogance, her very hands were tense with
eager life, her whole being breathed mutiny.

Orth turned abruptly to Blanche, who had transferred her attention to
the picture.

"What a tragedy is there!" he exclaimed, with a fierce attempt at
lightness. "Think of a woman having all that pent up within her two
centuries ago! And at the mercy of a stupid family, no doubt, and a
still stupider husband. No wonder--To-day, a woman like that might not
be a model for all the virtues, but she certainly would use her gifts
and become famous, the while living her life too fully to have any place
in it for yeomen and such, or even for the trivial business of breaking
hearts." He put his finger under Blanche's chin, and raised her face,
but he could not compel her gaze. "You are