No reply.

"Miss Darling, what do you mean?"

With a sudden fierce recklessness the girl turned and faced him.

"I mean _that_--just that--what you did now, and a minute ago. The way you have of--of expecting everybody and everything to bend to your will and wishes. Oh, I know, it's silly and horrible and everything for me to say this. But you _made_ me do it. I told you it was impertinent! Don't you see? I'd have to have love and laughter and sympathy and interest and--and all that around me. I _couldn't_ be happy here. This house is like a tomb, and you--sometimes you are jolly and kind and--and _fine_.

But I never know _how_ you're going to be. And I'd die if I had to worry and fret and fear all the time how you _were_ going to be! Mr. Denby, I--I couldn't live in such a place, and mother couldn't either. And I-- Oh, what have I said? But you made me do it, you made me do it!"

For one long minute there was utter silence in the room. Burke Denby, at the library table, sat motionless, his hand shading his eyes. Betty, in her chair, wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Her eyes were frightened--but her chin was high.

Suddenly he stirred. His hand no longer shaded his face. Betty, to her amazement, saw that his lips were smiling, though his eyes, she knew, were moist.

"Betty, my dear child, I thought before that I wanted you. I know now I've _got_ to have you."

Betty, as if the smile were contagious, found her own lips twitching.

"What--do you mean?"

"I mean that your fearless little tirade was just what I needed, my dear. I _have_ expected everything and everybody to bend to my will and wishes. I suspect that's what's been the matter, too, all the way up. I thought once, long ago, I'd learned my lesson. But it seems I haven't.

Here I am up to the same old tricks again. Will you come and--er--train me, Betty? I will promise to be very docile."

Betty did laugh this time--and the tension snapped. "Train"--the very word with which she had shocked her mother weeks before!

"Seriously, my dear,"--the man's face was very grave now,--"I want you to talk this thing over with your mother. I am a lonely old man--yes, old, in spite of the fact that I'm barely forty--I feel sixty! I want you, and I need you, and--notwithstanding your unflattering opinion of me, just expressed--I believe I can make you happy, and your mother, too. She shall have every comfort, and you shall have love and laughter and sympathy and interest, I promise you. Now, isn't your heart softening just a wee bit? _Won't_ you come?"

"Why, of course, I--appreciate your kindness, Mr. Denby, and"--Betty drew a tremulous breath and looked wistfully into the man's pleading eyes--"it would be lovely for--mother, wouldn't it? She wouldn't have to worry any more, or--or--"

Burke Denby lifted an imperative hand. His face lighted. He sprang to his feet and spoke with boyish enthusiasm.

"The very thing! Miss Darling, I want you to go home and bring your mother back to luncheon with you. Never mind the work," he went on, as he saw her quick glance toward his desk. "I don't want to work. I couldn't--this morning. And I don't want you to. I want to see your mother. I want to tell her--many things--of myself. I want her to see me, and see if she thinks she could give you to me as a daughter, and yet not lose you herself, but come here with you to live."

"But I--I could tell her this to-night," stammered Betty, knowing still that, in spite of herself, she was being swept quite off her feet by the extraordinary enthusiasm of the eager man before her.

"I don't want to wait till to-night. I want to see her now.

Besides,"--he c.o.c.ked his head whimsically with the confident air of one who knows his point is gained,--"I want a magazine, and I forgot to ask you to get it for me last night. I want the February 'Research.' So we'll just let it go that I'm sending you to the station newsstand for that. Incidentally, you may come back around by your mother's place and bring her with you. There, now surely you won't object to--to running an errand for me!" he finished triumphantly.

"No, I surely can't object to--to running an errand for you," laughed Betty, as she rose to her feet, a pretty color in her face. "And I--I'll try to bring mother."

It was in a tumult of excitement and indecision that Betty hurried down the long Denby walk that February morning. What would her mother say?

How would she take it? Would she consent? Would she consent even to go to luncheon--she who so seldom went anywhere? It was a wonderful thing--this proposal of Mr. Denby's. It meant, of course,--everything, if they accepted it, a complete metamorphosis of their whole lives and future. It could not help meaning that. But would they be happy there?

Could they be happy with a man like Mr. Denby? To be sure, he said he would be willing to be--trained. (Betty's face dimpled into a broad smile somewhat to the mystification of the man she chanced to be meeting at the moment.) But would he be really kind and lovable like this all the time? He had been delightful once before--for a few days. What guaranty had they that he would not again, at the first provocation, fall back into his old glum unbearableness?

But what would her mother say? Well, she would soon know. She would get the magazine, then hurry home--and find out.

It was between trains at the station, and the waiting-room was deserted.

Betty hurriedly told the newsstand woman what she wanted, and tried to a.s.sume a forbidding aspect that would discourage questions. But the woman made no move to get the magazine. She did not seem even to have heard the request. Instead she leaned over the counter and caught Betty's arm in a vise-like grip. Her face was alight with joyous excitement.

"Well, I am glad to see you! I've been watchin' ev'ry day fur you. What did I tell ye? _Now_ I guess you'll say I know when I've seen a face before! _Now_ I know who you are. I see you with your mother at Martin's grocery last Sat'day night, and I tried ter get to ye, but I lost ye in the crowd. I see _you_ first, then I see her, and I knew then in a minute who you was, and why I'd thought I'd seen ye somewheres. I hadn't--not since you was a kid, though; but I knew yer mother, an'

you've got her eyes. You're Helen Denby's daughter. My, but I'm glad ter see ye!"

Betty, plainly distressed, had been attempting to pull her arm away from the woman's grasp; but at the name a look of relief crossed her face.

"You are quite mistaken, madam," she said coldly. "My mother's name is not Helen Denby."

"But I see her myself with my own eyes, child! Of course she's older lookin', but I'd swear on my dyin' bed 'twas her. Ain't you Dorothy Elizabeth?"

Betty's eyes flew wide open.

"You--know--my--_name_?"

"There! I knew 'twas," triumphed the woman. "An' ter think of you comin'

back an' workin' fur yer father like this, an'--"

"My--_what_?"

It was the woman's turn to open wide eyes of amazement.

"Do you mean to say you don't know Burke Denby is your father?"

"But he isn't my father! My father is dead!"

"Who said so?"

"Why, mother--that is--I mean--she never said-- What do you mean? He can't be my father. My mother's name is Helen Darling!" Betty was making no effort to get away now. She was, indeed, clutching the woman's arm with her free hand.

The woman scowled and stared. Suddenly her face cleared.

"My Jiminy! so that's her game! She's keepin' it from ye, I bet ye," she cried excitedly.

"Keeping it from me! Keeping what from me? What are you talking about?"

Betty's face had paled. The vague questions and half-formed fears regarding her mother's actions for the past few months seemed suddenly to be taking horrible shape and definiteness.

"Sakes alive! Do you mean ter say that you don't know that Burke Denby is your father, an' that he give your mother the go-by when you was a kid, an' she lit out with you an' hain't been heard of since?"

"No, no, it can't be--it can't be! My father was good and fine, and--"

"Rats! Did she stuff ye ter that, too? I tell ye _'tis_ so. Say, look a-here! Wa'n't you down ter Martin's grocery last Sat'day night at nine o'clock?"

"Y-yes."

"Well, wa'n't you there with yer mother?"

"Y-yes." A power entirely outside of herself seemed to force the answers from Betty's lips.

"Well, I see ye. You was tergether, talkin' to the big fat man with the red nose. I started towards ye, but I lost ye in the crowd."

Betty's face had grown gray-white. She remembered now. That was the night her mother had run away from--something.

"But I knew her," nodded the woman. "I knew she was Helen Denby."