eatly bordered by
white clam shells; several thrifty geraniums in bloom looked out from
the muslin-curtained windows.

A weary-faced woman came forward to meet them.

"Bessie's much the same, Miss Lesley," she said, in answer to Marian's
inquiry. "The doctor you sent was here today and did all he could for
her. He seemed quite hopeful. She don't complain or nothing--just lies
there and moans. Sometimes she gets restless. It's very kind of you to
come so often, Miss Lesley. Here, Magdalen, will you put this basket
the lady's brought up there on the shelf?"

A girl, who had been sitting unnoticed with her back to the visitors,
at the head of the child's cot in one corner of the room, stood up and
slowly turned around. Marian and Esterbrook Elliott both started with
involuntary surprise. Esterbrook caught his breath like a man suddenly
awakened from sleep. In the name of all that was wonderful, who or
what could this girl be, so little in harmony with her surroundings?

Standing in the crepuscular light of the corner, her marvellous beauty
shone out with the vivid richness of some rare painting. She was tall,
and the magnificent proportions of her figure were enhanced rather
than marred by the severely plain dress of dark print that she wore.
The heavy masses of her hair, a shining auburn dashed with golden
foam, were coiled in a rich, glossy knot at the back of the
classically modelled head and rippled back from a low brow whose waxen
fairness even the breezes of the ocean had spared.

The girl's face was a full, perfect oval, with features of faultless
regularity, and the large, full eyes were of tawny hazel, darkened
into inscrutable gloom in the dimness of the corner.

Not even Marian Lesley's face was more delicately tinted, but not a
trace of colour appeared in the smooth, marble-like cheeks; yet the
waxen pallor bore no trace of disease or weakness, and the large,
curving mouth was of an intense crimson.

She stood quite motionless. There was no trace of embarrassment or
self-consciousness in her pose. When Mrs. Barrett said, "This is my
niece, Magdalen Crawford," she merely inclined her head in grave,
silent acknowledgement. As she moved forward to take Marian's basket,
she seemed oddly out of place in the low, crowded room. Her presence
seemed to throw a strange restraint over the group.

Marian rose and went over to the cot, laying her slender hand on the
hot forehead of the little sufferer. The child op