"Do you think she's like other children?"
"I know nothing of other children."
"I do, sir. I've raised six. And I've seen hundreds of others. I never was one to be a fool about my own, but Blanche isn't like any other child living—I'm certain of it."
"What do you think?"
And the woman answered, according to her lights: "I think she's an angel, and came to us because we needed her."
"And I think she is Blanche Mortlake working out the last of her salvation," thought the author; but he made no reply, and was alone in a moment.
It was several days before he spoke to Blanche, and then, one morning, when she was sitting on her mat on the lawn with the light full upon her, he told her abruptly that her mother must return home.
To his surprise, but unutterable delight, she burst into tears and flung herself into his arms.
"You need not leave me," he said, when he could find his own voice. "You can stay here always and be my little girl. It all rests with you."
"I can't stay," she sobbed. "I can't!"