And as the good Mrs. Albion liked being addressed as “Ma dear,” she produced her best armchair (a forbidding affair of varnished walnut, American cloth and brass-headed nails), and set it beside the bed. She also put a match to the fire and, on the principle of “If you’re not going to sleep, you must eat,” cooked up “a bit o’ supper.” She did not leave the room until satisfied that Mornice had done justice to the grilled herring and jug of hot coffee. Then she gave her a “nice” kiss and a whispered good night. Mornice lowered the gas, and, taking Eliphalet’s hand, sat beside him. The Old Card was very restless, and rambled in his mind and speech. Fragments of disjointed sentences and long out-of-use quotations came from his lips. Once he snatched away his hand and cried “Put them up!” Very gently Mornice soothed him and regained his hand. “I’m sure I was right—a blackguard,” muttered Eliphalet. “And she little more than a child—clever—dear child! With a little training, a little care—‘Have you a daughter? Let her not walk in the sun.’ I’ve no daughter—no child—nothing. That’s so, old boy; that’s so.” “Ssh!” whispered Mornice. “You must go to sleep. Ssh!” “Who’s that?” He spoke in a startled tone. “It’s me—Mornice.” “‘Me, Mornice’—No—‘I,’ Mornice, ‘I’—a little training—a little guidance.” His voice trailed away into silence. When next he spoke it was to ask: “What’s the time?” “Three o’clock.” “Three at night—and that was a woman’s voice, I don’t understand. Who are you?” She told him again. “Three o’clock at night—No, not Mornice—you’re Blanche—poor old Blanche! And yet so much seems to have happened since—and Blanche—I don’t know!” Mornice started violently. “Why do you call me Blanche?” The quick sound of her voice roused the old man from his wanderings, for he turned, rose on his elbow, and looked at her. “What’s the matter, my dear?” he said. “Why are you here?” “You’ve been ill,” she replied. “Don’t you remember?” “Ah, yes, yes, I remember now.” “Tell me,” she begged. “A moment ago you called me Blanche.” “I did!—good God, yes! That’s where the resemblance lies.” “Who were you speaking of?” “Blanche Cannon. Before you were born she was my wife.” “But she is my mother. Then am I——?” Eliphalet had taken her hands and was looking at her with wide-opened eyes. “How I wish you were!” he said. “But you came after, my dear.” “Then,” said Mornice very positively but very tenderly, “whether I am, or whether I’m not, whether you like it or whether you don’t, I’m going to be your daughter—See!” And she kissed him as a daughter should. At the theatre a week later the Lady of the Lorgnettes addressed She of the Neuralgia. “My _dear_,” she said. “Have you heard the news? _That_ Mr. Cardomay has taken _that_ Miss Something-or-other June to live with him. _Really_, it is extraordinary what these _stage_ people will do.”