"Did you have a pleasant Christmas, Miss Darling?" Careless as was his apparent aim, it was the first gun of his campaign.

"Yes, thank you, very pleasant."

"I didn't. Too quiet. A house needs young people at Christmas. If only I had a daughter now--" He watched her face closely, but he could detect no change of color. There was only polite, sympathetic interest. "Let me see, you live with your mother, I believe," he finished somewhat abruptly.

"Yes."

"Have you lived in Dalton long?"

"Only since October, when I came to you."

"Do you like it here?"

"Oh, yes, very well."

"Still, not so well as where you came from, perhaps," he smiled pleasantly.

Betty laughed.

"But I came--from so many places."

"That so?"

"Paris, Berlin, London, Genoa,--mostly London, of late."

"But you are American born!"

"Oh, yes."

"I thought so. Still, it is a little singular, having been gone so long, that you are so American in your speech and manner. You aren't a bit English, Miss Darling."

Betty laughed again merrily.

"How mother would love to hear you say that!" she cried. "You see, mother was so afraid I would be--English, or something foreign--educated as I was almost entirely across the water. But we were with Americans all the time, and our teachers, except for languages, were Americans, whenever possible."

"Hm-m; I see. And now you are here in America again. And does your mother like it--here?"

"Why, I think so."

"And does she like Dalton, too? Perhaps she has been here before, though." The casual way in which the question was put gave no indication of the way the questioner was holding his breath for the answer.

"Oh, yes. She was here several years ago, she says."

"Indeed!" To Burke Denby it was as if something within him had suddenly snapped. He relaxed in his chair. His eyes were still covertly searching Betty's serene face bent over her work. Within himself he was saying: "Well, _she_ doesn't know, whatever it is." Aloud he resumed: "And were you, too, ever here?"

"Why, yes; but I don't remember it. I was only a year or two old, mother said."

The man almost leaped from his chair. Then, sternly, he forced himself to work one full minute without speaking. A dozen agitated questions were clamoring for utterance, but he knew better than to give them voice. With a cheery casualness of manner, that made him inordinately proud of himself, he said:--

"Well, I certainly am glad you came now. I'm sure I don't know what I should have done, if you hadn't. But, by the way, how did you happen to come to me?" Again he held his breath.

"Why, through Dr. Gleason. You knew that!"

"Yes, but I know only that. You never did--exactly this sort of work before, did you?"

"No--oh, no. But there has to be a beginning, you know; and mother says she thinks every girl ought to know how to do something, so that she can support herself if it is necessary. And in our case I think--it is necessary."

Low as the last words were, the man's sensitively alert ear caught them.

"You mean--"

"I mean--I think mother is--is poor, and is trying to keep it from me."

The words came with all the impetuosity of one who has found suddenly a sympathetic ear for a long-pent secret. "I can see it in so many ways--not keeping a maid, and being so--so anxious that I shall do well here. And--and she doesn't seem natural, some way, lately. She's unhappy, or something. And she goes out so little--almost never, except in the evening."

"She doesn't care to--to see people, perhaps." By a supreme effort Burke Denby hid the fever of excitement and rejoicing within him, and toned his voice to just the right shade of solicitous interest.

"No, she doesn't," admitted Betty, with a long sigh. Then, impulsively, she added: "She seems so very afraid of meeting people that I've wondered sometimes if maybe she had old friends here and--and didn't want to meet them because--perhaps, her circ.u.mstances were changed now.

That isn't like mother, but-- Oh, I shouldn't say all this to you, Mr.

Denby. I--I didn't think, really. I spoke before I thought. You seemed so--interested."

"I am interested, my dear--Miss Darling," returned the man, not quite steadily. "I--I think I should like to know--your mother."

"She's lovely."

"Are you--like her?" He had contrived to throw into his eyes a merry challenge--against her taking this as she might take it.

But Betty was too absorbed to be flippant, or even merrily self-conscious.

"Why, I don't know, but I don't think so--except my eyes. Every one says my eyes _are_ like hers."

Burke Denby got suddenly to his feet and walked quite across the room.

Apparently he was examining a rare old Venetian gla.s.s Tear Vase, especially prized by him for its a.s.sociations. In reality he was trying to master the tumult within him. He had now not one remaining doubt.

This stupendous thing was really so. She was his Elizabeth; his--Betty.

Yet there remained still one more test. He must ask about her--father.

And for this he must especially brace himself: he could imagine what Helen must have taught her--of him.

Very slowly, the vase still unconsciously clutched in his hand, Burke Denby walked back to the table and sat down.

"Well, as I said, I should like to see your mother," he smiled. "I feel that I know her already. But--your father; I don't think you have told me a thing about your father yet."

A rapt wistfulness came to the girl's face.

"Father! Oh, but I never stop talking when I get to telling of him. You see, I never knew him."

"No?"

Infinite longing and tenderness were coming into the man's eyes.

"But I know _about_ him. Mother has told me, you see. So I know just how fine and n.o.ble and splendid he was, and--"