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
intentness. She raised her head and stared around the
unfamiliar room doubtfully, then turned to where her father
stood, looking at him a moment, and passed him by; and then,
looking up into Van Bibber's face, recognized him, and gave a
gentle, sleepy smile, and, with a sigh of content and
confidence, drew her arm up closer around his neck, and let
her head fall back upon his breast.