, nay,
almost certainly was, the only thing likely to ensure for Bubbles a
reasonably happy and normal life. Blanche Farrow knew enough of human
nature to realize that the kind of love Bill Donnington felt for her
strange little niece was of a high and rare quality. It was very unlike
the usual selfish, acquisitive love of a man for a maid. It was more
like the tender, watching, tireless devotion certain mothers have for
their children--it was infinitely protecting, infinitely forgiving,
infinitely understanding.

Blanche sighed, a long, deep sigh, as she told herself sadly that no one
had ever loved _her_ like that--not even her old friend Mark Gifford. He
had loved her long; in fact he rarely saw her, even now, without asking
her to marry him. Also he had been, in his own priggish way, a very,
very good and useful friend to her. But still, Blanche knew, deep in her
heart, that Mark Gifford disapproved of her, that he often misunderstood
her, that he was ashamed of the strength of the attraction which made
him still wish to make her his wife, and which had kept him a bachelor.
As long as this old friend had known her he had always written her a
Christmas letter. The letter had not come this Christmas, and she had
missed it. But Mark had no idea of where she was, and--and after all,
perhaps his faithful friendship had waned at last from lack of real
response.

And then, while thinking these rather melancholy, desultory thoughts,
Blanche Farrow suddenly experienced a very peculiar sensation. It was
that of finding herself as if impelled to look up from the
embroidery-frame over which she was bending.

She did look up; and for a moment her heart--that heart which the way of
her life had so atrophied and hardened--seemed to stop beating, for just
behind Lionel Varick, whose head was still bent over his newspaper with
a complete air of unconcern, interest, and ease--stood, or appeared to
stand, two shadowy figures.

She shut her eyes; then opened them again--wide. _The figures were still
there_, and they had grown clearer, more definite, especially the
countenance of each of the two wraith-like women who stood, like
sentinels, one on either side of the seated man.

Blanche gazed at them fixedly for what seemed to her an eternity of
time. But even while, in a way, she could not deny the evidence of her
senses, she was telling herself that she was really seeing
_nothing_--that this extraordinary experience was but anoth