est thought to
making this world or anyone in it one bit better for her having lived in
it. She's stealing from God. And what's done it--vanity, that years ago
mastered all the good things in her. Poor old soul--she was once a
young, pretty girl, like you----"

Isobel jerked her head petulantly. The blue velvet box lay neglected on
the counterpane.

"I think you're horrid to lecture me, Uncle Johnny. Mother and
father----"

Uncle Johnny smiled whimsically at the childish face.

"Mothers and fathers sometimes don't see things as clearly as mere
uncles--because they're so close. And Bonnie, dear, it's because we all
want so much of you! Let me tell you something else--this isn't a
lecture, either. It's a little thing that happened when you were a baby
and I've never forgotten it. I didn't see you until you were a year
old--I was abroad, studying, when you were born. When I went up to your
nursery that first time, and looked at you, I thought you were the most
wonderful thing God ever made. You lay there in your little white crib
and stared at me with your round, blue eyes, and then you smiled and
thrust out the tiniest scrap of a hand. I didn't dare breathe. And
everything around you was so perfect--white enamel, blue and yellow and
pink birds and squirrels and dogs and things painted on your walls, the
last word in baby furniture and toilet things. That very day a friend of
mine asked me to help drive the orphans of the city on their annual
outing. I was glad to do something for someone--you see, having a new
niece made me feel as though I was walking on air. They loaded up my car
with kids of all sizes and then the last moment someone snuggled a bit
of humanity into the front seat between two older youngsters--a poor
little mite with big, round, blue eyes like yours and the lower part of
her face all twisted with a great scar where she'd been burned. I
couldn't see anything on the whole ride but that little face--and
always, back in my mind were your two blue eyes and your dimpled smile.
I wanted to get through with the whole trip and hurry back to your
nursery to see if you were all right. But I stopped long enough at the
orphanage to ask about the poor baby. She'd been found in a filthy
cellar where she'd been abandoned--that's all they knew. How's _that_
for a heritage? Stripped of everything--except the soul of her--to fight
through life with, and horribly disfigured in the bargain. I asked what
they did for su