se person could be bought off easily enough," he went on,
quickly, "and Lester won't mind letting her go if I ask it,--and--and
that's what I'll do. As you say, it's a good deal of an experiment,
but I think I'll run the risk."

He walked quickly to the door and disappeared in the hall, and then
came back, kicking the door open as he returned, and holding the child
in his arms.

"This is she," he said, quietly. He did not look at or notice the
father, but stood, with the child asleep in the bend of his left arm,
gazing down at her. "This is she," he repeated; "this is your child."

There was something cold and satisfied in Van Bibber's tone and manner,
as though he were congratulating himself upon the engaging of a new
groom; something that placed the father entirely outside of it. He
might have been a disinterested looker-on.

"She will need to be fed a bit," Van Bibber ran on, cheerfully. "They
did not treat her very well, I fancy. She is thin and peaked and
tired-looking." He drew up the loose sleeve of her jacket, and showed
the bare forearm to the light. He put his thumb and little finger
about it, and closed them on it gently. "It is very thin," he said.
"And under her eyes, if it were not for the paint," he went on,
mercilessly, "you could see how deep the lines are. This red spot on
her cheek," he said, gravely, "is where Mary Vane kissed her to-night,
and this is where Alma Stantley kissed her, and that Lee girl. You
have heard of them, perhaps. They will never kiss her again. She is
going to grow up a sweet, fine, beautiful woman--are you not?" he said,
gently drawing the child higher up on his shoulder, until her face
touched his, and still keeping his eyes from the face of the older man.
"She does not look like her mother," he said; "she has her father's
auburn hair and straight nose and finer-cut lips and chin. She looks
very much like her father. It seems a pity," he added, abruptly. "She
will grow up," he went on, "without knowing him, or who he is--or was,
if he should die. She will never speak with him, or see him, or take
his hand. She may pass him some day on the street and will not know
him, and he will not know her, but she will grow to be very fond and to
be very grateful to the simple, kindhearted old people who will have
cared for her when she was a little girl."

The child in his arms stirred, shivered slightly, and awoke. The two
men watched her breathlessly, with silent