had beaten her once or twice, I don't believe she would have
behaved as she did. Imagine leaving a good husband, a devoted
husband--"

"What I can't imagine," Helena Richie said, in a low voice, "is
leaving a living child. _That_ seems to me impossible."

"The man married her after Arthur--died," he went on; "I guess
she paid the piper in her life with him! I hope she did. Oh,
well; she's dead now; I mustn't talk about her. But Elizabeth has
her blood in her; and she is pretty, just as she was. She looks
like her, sometimes. There--now you know. Now you understand why
I worry so about her. I used to wish she would die before she
grew up. I tried to do my duty to her, but I hoped she would die.
Yet she seems to be a good little thing. Yes, I'm pretty sure she
is a good little thing. To-night, before we went to the dinner,
she--she behaved very prettily. But if I saw her mother in her, I
would--God knows what I would do! But except for this fussing
about clothes, she seems all right. You know she wanted a locket
once? But you think that is only natural to a girl? Not a vanity
that I need to be anxious about? Her mother was vain--a shallow,
selfish theatrical creature!" He looked at her with worried eyes.
"I am dreadfully anxious, sometimes," he said simply.

"There's nothing to be anxious about," she said, in a smothered
voice, "nothing at all."

"Of course I'm fond of her," he confessed, "but I am never sure
of her."