He went out into the park and found Blanche digging in her garden, very
dirty and absorbed. The next afternoon, however, entering the hall
noiselessly, he saw her sitting in her big chair, gazing out into
nothing visible, her whole face settled in melancholy. He asked her if
she were ill, and she recalled herself at once, but confessed to feeling
tired. Soon after this he noticed that she lingered longer in the
comfortable depths of her chair, and seldom went out, except with
himself. She insisted that she was quite well, but after he had
surprised her again looking as sad as if she had renounced every joy of
childhood, he summoned from London a doctor renowned for his success
with children.

The scientist questioned and examined her. When she had left the room he
shrugged his shoulders.

"She might have been born with ten years of life in her, or she might
grow up into a buxom woman," he said. "I confess I cannot tell. She
appears to be sound enough, but I have no X-rays in my eyes, and for all
I know she may be on the verge of decay. She certainly has the look of
those who die young. I have never seen so spiritual a child. But I can
put my finger on nothing. Keep her out-of-doors, don't give her sweets,
and don't let her catch anything if you can help it."

Orth and the child spent the long warm days of summer under the trees of
the park, or driving in the quiet lanes. Guests were unbidden, and his
pen was idle. All that was human in him had gone out to Blanche. He
loved her, and she was a perpetual delight to him. The rest of the world
received the large measure of his indifference. There was no further
change in her, and apprehension slept and let him sleep. He had
persuaded Mrs. Root to remain in England for a year. He sent her theatre