worth while to hear the details of its growth. It was so
interestingly like her to have remained silent through the process of
thinking a thing out, evolving her final idea without having disturbed
him by bringing to him any chaotic uncertainties.

"It's a sort of confession," she answered. "Father, I have been thinking
about it for years. I said nothing because for so long I knew I was only
a child, and a child's judgment might be worth so little. But through
all those years I was learning things and gathering evidence. When I was
at school, first in one country and then another, I used to tell myself
that I was growing up and preparing myself to do a particular thing--to
go to rescue Rosy."

"I used to guess you thought of her in a way of your own," Vanderpoel
said, "but I did not guess you were thinking that much. You were always
a solid, loyal little thing, and there was business capacity in your
keeping your scheme to yourself. Let us look the matter in the face.
Suppose she does not need rescuing. Suppose, after all, she is a
comfortable, fine lady and adores her husband. What then?"

"If I should find that to be true, I will behave myself very well--as
if we had expected nothing else. I will make her a short visit and come
away. Lady Cecilia Orme, whom I knew in Florence, has asked me to stay
with her in London. I will go to her. She is a charming woman. But I
must first see Rosy--SEE her."

Mr. Vanderpoel thought the matter over during a few moments of silence.

"You do not wish your mother to go with you?" he said presently.

"I believe it will be better that she should not," she answered. "If
there are difficulties or disappointments she would be too unhappy."

"Yes," he said slowly, "and she could not control her feelings. She
would give the whole thing away, poor girl."

He had been looking at the carpet reflectively, and now he looked at
Bettina.

"What are you expecting to find, at the worst?" he asked her. "The kind
of thing which will need management while it is being looked into?"

"I do not know what I am expecting to find," was her reply. "We know
absolutely nothing; but that Rosy was fond of us, and that her marriage
has seemed to make her cease to care. She was not like that; she was not
like that! Was she, father?"

"No, she wasn't," he exclaimed. The memory of her in her short-frocked
and early girlish days, a pretty, smiling, effusive thing, given to
lavish caresses and affectionate l