“His mother? But--I thought--that you----” Dolores, again alone, began to understand. Of course Mrs. Morrison was the housekeeper. That explained the first-floor parlor, the neat black taffeta of her dress and her subdued manner. A third application for the coveted position must be made. When, next moment, the door was pushed wide, she did not rise. She had not the strength. A woman in a smart habit of black velvet coat and white cloth breeches had clattered in, crop in hand. “Master Jack’s mother will speak with you, Miss Trent,” introduced the housekeeper. Still Dolores found her limbs weaker than her will. She clung to both arms of the chair and waited for the real sponsor for the “fiend-child” to speak. She--the mother--was Mrs. Cabot. CHAPTER X His Majesty himself dropped the curtain on the earth-play of the spirit-girl. “The only real value of a story is its effect upon yourself,” he said. “I must have an interval in which to judge the worth of yours.” At the time Dolores felt relieved, although he had not confused her with the interruptions and insistence of the previous séance. He had allowed her to tell her story her own way, swiftly and simply, and showed a positive gravity of attention over the ecclesiastic incidents. Not until the next night came and went without the call for a third installment, did she suspect that he had been merely bored. When a second night passed with the same significant omission and, after that, a third, fear possessed her. Had she, then, fallen short of his expectations? Had she done what he had warned her not to do--had she failed? She took to staying in her chamber and hoping for his summons more than previously she had dreaded it. Over her babe she would hover the hours away, brooding rather than rejoicing at each cooed assurance that the infant-shade was content. Would the price of the respite be paid in part by the blameless soul of her soul? To her here, through the guarded gossip of the proud Adeline, came reports of a direful activity on the part of the King. Never had he been more exacting, more merciless in his reversal of punishment for reward. His disposition of that first evening during which she had waited in vain seemed directly inspired by her reminiscences of the parson person. In an open-air camp-meeting, “His Damnity” had preached the first of seven announced “sermons” to a vast concourse. Seven, it seemed, was the perfect number--a royal superstition. Hadn’t she counted his seven courtiers, the seven windows of the throne-room, seven courses at dinner, seven days in his week?