Whence came the spirit, from Stella herself or from the divine lingering in the faulty folks who made her world, who can tell? There never was an invisible spirit guarding doors and opening hearts, since the earth began, who had not a human genesis. From man alone, in this myriad-faceted cosmos, can a compassionate God, in the form of angels and ministering spirits, he reflected. Perhaps the radiant spirit of the child herself, triumphing over disastrous circumstances, instilled a sacred awe in those who surrounded her; perhaps the pathos of her lifelong condemnation stirred unusual depths of pity. At all events, the unwritten law was irrefragable. Outside Stella's door the wicked must cast their evil thoughts, the gloomy shed their cloak of cloud, and the wretched unpack their burden of suffering. Whether it was for the ultimate welfare of Stellamaris to live in this land of illusion is another matter. “Save her from knowledge of pain and from suspicion of evil,” John Risca would cry, when discussing the matter. “Let us make sure of one perfect flower in this poisonous fungus garden of a world.” “Great High Belovedest,” Stellamaris would say when they were alone together, “what about the palace to-day?” And the light would break upon the young man's grim face, and he would tell her of the palace in which he dwelt in the magic city of London. “I have got a beautiful new Persian carpet,” he would say, “with blues in it like that band of sea over there, for the marble floor of the vestibule.” “I hope it matches the Gobelin tapestry.” “You couldn't have chosen it better yourself, Stellamaris.” The great eyes looked at him in humorous dubiety. He was wearing a faded mauve shirt and a flagrantly blue tie. “I am not so sure of your eye for colour, Great High Belovedest, and it would be a pity to have the beautiful palace spoiled.” “I assure you that East and West in this instance are blended in perfect harmony.” “And how are Lilias and Niphetos?” Lilias and Niphetos were two imaginary Angora cats, nearly the size of the Lord High Constable, who generally sat on the newel-posts of the great marble staircase. They were fed on chickens' livers and Devonshire cream. “Arachne,” he replied gravely, referring to a mythical attendant of Circassian beauty--“Arachne thought they were suffering from ennui, and so she brought them some white mice--and what do you think happened?” “Why, they gobbled them up, of course.” “That's where you 're wrong, Stellamaris. Those aristocratic cats turned up their noses at them. They looked at each other pityingly, as if to say, 'Does the foolish woman really think we can be amused by white mice?'” Stella laughed. “Don't they ever have any kittens?” “My dear,” said Risca, “they would die if I suggested such a thing to them.”