have imagined possible through the passage of
one person merely. A woman of fifty or more was descending with a slow
and somewhat ponderous stateliness. She wore an elaborate morning-gown
with a broad plait down the back, and an immensity of superfluous
material in the sleeves. Her person was broad, her bosom ample, and
her voluminous gray hair was tossed and fretted about the temples
after the fashion of a marquise of the old regime. Jane set her jaw
and clamped her knotty fingers to the two edges of her inhospitable
chair.

"I don't care if she _is_ so rich," she muttered, "and so famous, and
so fashionable, and so terribly handsome; she can't bear _me_ down."

The woman reached the bottom step, and took a turn that for a moment
carried her out of sight. At the same time the sound of her footsteps
was silenced by one of the big rugs that covered the floor of the wide
and roomy hall. But Jane had had a glimpse, and she knew with whom she
was to deal: with one of the big, the broad, the great, the
triumphant; with one of a Roman amplitude and vigor, an Indian
keenness and sagacity, an American ambition and determination; with
one who baffles circumstance and almost masters fate--with one of the
conquerors, in short.

"I don't hear her," thought the expectant girl, in some trepidation;
"but all the same, she's got to cross that bare space just outside the
door before--yes, there's her step! And here she is herself!"

Mrs. Bates appeared in the doorway. She had a strong nose of the lofty
Roman type; her bosom heaved with breaths deep, but quiet and regular.
She had a pair of large, full blue eyes, and these she now fixed on
Jane with an expression of rather cold questioning.

"Miss Marshall?" Her voice was firm, smooth, even, rich, deep. She
advanced a foot or two within the room and remained standing
there....

"My father," Jane began again, in the same tone, "is David Marshall.
He is very well known, I believe, in Chicago. We have lived here a
great many years. It seems to me that there ought to--"

"David Marshall?" repeated Mrs. Bates, gently. "Ah, I _do_ know David
Marshall--yes," she said; "or did--a good many years ago." She looked
up into Jane's face now with a completely altered expression. Her
glance was curious and searching, but it was very kindly. "And you are
David Marshall's daughter?" She smiled indulgently at Jane's outburst
of spunk. "Really--David Marshall's daughter?"

"Yes," answered Jane, w