"Now, look!" exclaimed the landlady, at length. "What do you think of yourself now?" and she placed a hand glass before her.
Dorothy uttered a low cry. Could that face be her own at which she gazed in the mirror's depths? Was she the old woman represented there? And from the bottom of her heart she thanked God that it was only make-believe; that beneath it all her face was still young and fair, without the ravaging touch of Time's withering hand.
But it touched her heart keenly to see her little Pearl, whom she was learning to fairly idolize, shrink from her.
"I must, indeed, look greatly changed," she said, with a sob.
Hastily dressing the little one, and taking her with her, Dorothy wended her way to her destination.
She had always looked upon a little child much the same as a little girl admires a big wax doll. Now she was beginning to realize that a real live baby must be washed and dressed and fed and attended to; that it wouldn't go to sleep or keep awake when people wished; in short, she was beginning to understand that it could be a darling little nuisance at times, even to those who adored the dimpled bit of precious humanity the most.
Fairly panting with carrying so heavy a burden in her slender arms, Dorothy reached at length the avenue and number—a magnificent brown stone mansion in the center of the block.
With beating heart she ascended the steps and touched the bell.
A very polite servant answered her summons and ushered her into a spacious drawing-room.
"Madame will be with you presently, as she is expecting you," he said, indicating a seat.