missed exact fidelity, after all. The difference, even his rolling
vision took note, lay in the warm pure living whiteness and the deeper
spiritual suggestion of the child in his path. Fortunately for his
self-respect, the surrender lasted but a moment. The little girl spoke.

"You look real sick," she said. "Shall I lead you home?"

The voice was soft and sweet, but the intonation, the vernacular, were
American, and not of the highest class. The shock was, if possible, more
agonizing than the other, but this time Orth rose to the occasion.

"Who are you?" he demanded, with asperity. "What is your name? Where do
you live?"

The child smiled, an angelic smile, although she was evidently amused.
"I never had so many questions asked me all at once," she said. "But I
don't mind, and I'm glad you're not sick. I'm Mrs. Jennie Root's little
girl--my father's dead. My name is Blanche--you _are_ sick! No?--and I
live in Rome, New York State. We've come over here to visit pa's
relations."

Orth took the child's hand in his. It was very warm and soft.

"Take me to your mother," he said, firmly; "now, at once. You can return
and play afterwards. And as I wouldn't have you disappointed for the
world, I'll send to town to-day for a beautiful doll."

The little girl, whose face had fallen, flashed her delight, but walked
with great dignity beside him. He groaned in his depths as he saw they
were pointing for the widow's house, but made up his mind that he would