he eyelashes. It was the perfect
nose, and lips, and chin, and the chiselled beauty of oval cheeks, all
in such classic harmony with the girl's wealth of vivid hair.

Nancy returned his gaze without the shadow of a smile. She had come at
this man's call from the coldly correct halls of Marypoint College,
which was also the soulless home she had been condemned to for the three
or four most impressionable years of her life. And she knew the purpose
of the summons.

There was a deep abiding resentment in her heart. It was not against
this man or his wife. From these two she had received only kindness and
affection. It was directed against the stepfather whom she believed to
be the cause of the banishment she had had to endure. Furthermore, she
could never forget that her banishment was only terminated that she
might gaze at last upon the dead features of her dearly loved mother
before the cold earth hid them from view forever.

The lawyer understood. He had understood from her reply to his letter
summoning her. There was no need for the confirmation he read now in her
unsmiling eyes.

"You sent for me?" she said.

Nancy's voice was deep and rich for all her youth. Then with a display
of some slight confusion, she suddenly realised the welcoming hand
outheld. She took it hurriedly, and the brief hand clasp completely
broke down the barrier she had deliberately set up.

"Oh, it's a shame, Uncle Charles," she cried, almost tearfully.
"It's--it's a shame. I know. I'm just a kid--a fool kid who hasn't a
notion, or a feeling, or--or anything. I'm to be treated that way. When
he says 'listen,' why, I've just got to listen. And when he says 'obey,'
I've got to obey, because the law says he's my stepfather. He's robbed
me of my mother. Oh, it's cruel. Now he's going to rob me of everything
else I s'pose. Who is he? What is he that he has the power to--to make
me a sort of slave to his wishes? I've never seen him. I hate him, and
he hates me, and yet--oh--I'm kind of sorry," she said, in swift
contrition at the sight of the old man's evident distress. "I--I--didn't
think. I--oh, I know it's not your fault, uncle. It's just nothing to do
with you. You've always been so kind and good to me--you and Aunt Sally.
You've got to send for me and tell me the things he says, because--"

"Because I'm his 'hired man.' But also because I'm his friend."

The lawyer spoke kindly, but very firmly. He knew the impulsive nature
of this passi