The woman rose. "I've thought this," she said; "let Blanche decide. I
believe she knows more than any of us. I believe that whichever way she
decided would be right. I won't say anything to her, so you won't think
I'm working on her feelings; and I can trust you. But she'll know."

"Why do you think that?" asked Orth, sharply. "There is nothing uncanny
about the child. She is not yet seven years old. Why should you place
such a responsibility upon her?"

"Do you think she's like other children?"

"I know nothing of other children."

"I do, sir. I've raised six. And I've seen hundreds of others. I never
was one to be a fool about my own, but Blanche isn't like any other
child living--I'm certain of it."

"What _do_ you think?"

And the woman answered, according to her lights: "I think she's an
angel, and came to us because we needed her."

"And I think she is Blanche Mortlake working out the last of her
salvation," thought the author; but he made no reply, and was alone in a
moment.

It was several days before he spoke to Blanche, and then, one morning,
when she was sitting on her mat on the lawn with the light full upon
her, he told her abruptly that her mother must return home.