Dolores’s apology stumbled as the visitor turned directly toward her. An exquisite creature she was, slender in her close-wrapped blue velvet, a haloesque effect created around her silver-gold hair by the sunlight shafting from a high window. Her blue, plumed hat lay upon a nearby chair. Dr. Willard raised a calming hand. “_My child!_” The emphasis laid on the familiar words as addressed to the girl gave them an unfamiliar ring. Then: “Mrs. Cabot, this is my new secretary, Miss Trent.” Dolores’ response to the introduction was automatic. She felt confused, distressed. What an evil chance to have cut short a clergyman’s advices to the great lady reported to have been prostrated already by notoriety suffered on her account! A rude return it seemed to the husband who had befriended her. CHAPTER IX Dolores need have felt no anxiety over what she should say. Mrs. Cabot said everything--and more. “You philanthropists, will you ever get enough? Or aren’t there that many?” The short-lipped, mouse-toothed, childlike smile with which she turned from her pastor to settle her hat in the mirror was reflected toward them. At the door she bowed composedly to Dolores and gave Dr. Willard her hand. “In return for your wise counsel over my domestic troubles, dear doctor, the favor you ask is small. Trust me. I’ll steal upstairs, as if overwhelmingly attracted by the music. But remember--you have assured me that you like the quality of her singing voice only because some one else does _not_ like the super-quality with which she speaks.” After she had gone, Dr. Willard sank into the padded leather chair and gazed out the window. He looked disturbed; bit his lip, as if trying to control vexation; waggled his right foot as he was wont to do when nervous. Dolores crossed the room, hesitated a moment before him, then sank upon the hassock placed conveniently in front of his chair. “Scold me--I’d rather you would!” she exclaimed, a catch in her voice. “I shouldn’t have burst in on your conference that way, but I just couldn’t help it. I was so angry that I--I----” “Angry? _You_, my child?” So cleared of all vexation were the yellow-brown eyes bent to her imploring look, that Dolores began to stammer out the cause of her agitation. When her head dropped to her hands upon his knee, he reached out and patted her on the shoulder, very, very kindly. “Poor orphan. Poor child,” he encouraged her. “I am indignant that such a scene could be forced upon an inexperienced girl within these walls. No matter how great may be Deacon Brill’s influence in the temporal affairs of the church, I shall bring him to book in my own time and my own way. Do not fear to tell me all.” Dolores told him. Shaken from her usual reticence, she also told him of her feeling of aloneness since her father had died and the positive fear that was growing in her--fear of the world and its ways.