ian, and she was only twenty-three. But she
was sent directly to me from service with Countess
Dimbrovitski--formerly, as you know, Maud Hochstetter, of Omaha--and
brought with her a most glowing reference for skill, honesty, and
unfailing tact. Countess Dimbrovitski did not explain in the reference,
dated from Newport, why she had permitted this paragon to slip from her;
nor did it occur to me to investigate the point. But Sonia later
explained it all, in intimate detail, to Susan--as we shall see.

I had feared that Susan might be at first a little bewildered by the
attentions of Sonia and of Miss Disbrow; so I explained the unusual
situation to Miss Goucher and Miss Disbrow--with certain
reservations--and asked them to make it clear to Sonia. Miss Goucher
merely nodded, curtly enough, and said she understood. Miss Disbrow
proved more curious and more voluble.

"How wonderful of you, Mr. Hunt!" she exclaimed. "To take in a poor
little waif and do all this for her! Personally, I count it a privilege
to be allowed some share in so generous an action. Oh, but I do--I do.
One likes to feel, even when forced to work for one's living, that one
has some little opportunity to do good in the world. Life isn't," asked
Miss Disbrow, "all money-grubbing and selfishness, is it?" And as I
found no ready answer, she concluded: "But I need hardly ask that of
you!"

For the fleetingest second I found myself wondering whether Miss
Disbrow, deep down in her hidden heart, might not be a minx. Yet her
glance, the happiest mixture of frankness, timidity, and respectful
admiration, disarmed me. I dismissed the unworthy suspicion as absurd.

I was a little troubled, though, when Susan that same evening after
dinner came to me in the library and seated herself on a low stool
facing my easy-chair.

"Ambo," she said, "I've been blind as blind, haven't I?"

"Have you?" I responded. "For a blind girl, it's wonderful how you find
your way about!"

"But I'm not joking--and that's just it," said Susan.

"What's wrong, dear?" I asked. "I see something is."

"Yes. I am. The wrongest possible. I've just dumped myself on you, and
stayed here; and--and I've no damn business here at all!"

"I thought we were going to forget the damns and hells, Susan?"

"We are," said Susan, coloring sharply and looking as if she wanted to
cry. "But when you've heard them, and worse, every minute all your
life--it's pretty hard to forget. You must scold me mo