He had been particularly lonely that evening, perhaps because it was Christmas, and he could not help comparing his own silent fireside with the gay, laughter-filled, holly-trimmed homes all about him. Being Christmas, he had not had even the divertisement of his secretary's presence--companionship. Yes, it was companionship, he decided. It could not but be that when she brought so much love and enthusiasm to the work, as well as the truly remarkable skill and knowledge she displayed. And she was, too, such a charming girl, so bright and lovable. The house had not been the same since she came into it. He hoped he might keep her. He should not like to let her go--now. But if only she could be there all the time! It would be much easier for _her_--winter storms were coming on now; and as for him--he should like it very much. The evenings were interminably long sometimes. He wondered if, after all, it might not be arranged. There was a mother, he believed. They lived in an apartment on West Hill. But she could doubtless be left all right, or she might even come, too, if it were necessary. Surely the house was large enough, and she might be good company for his cousin. And it would be nice for the daughter. It might, indeed, be a very suitable arrangement all around. Of course, if he had a wife and daughter of his own, he would not have to be filling his house with strangers like this. If Helen had not-- Curious, too, how the girl was always making him think of Helen--her eyes, especially when she had on her hat, and little ways she had-- It came then, with an electric force that brought him to his feet with almost a cry:-- "What if she were--maybe she _is_--your daughter!" As he paced the room feverishly, Burke Denby tried to bring the chaos of thoughts into something like order. It was absurd, of course. It could not be. And yet--there were her eyes so like Helen's, and the way she had of pushing back her hair, and of lifting her chin when she was determined about something. There were, too, actually some little things in her that reminded him of--himself. And surely her remarkable love and aptitude for the work she was doing for him now ought to mean--something. But could it be? Was it _possible_? Would Helen do such a fantastic thing--send him his own daughter like this? And the doctor--this girl had been introduced by him. Then he, too, must be in the plot. "A daughter of an old friend." Yes, that might be. But would Gleason lend himself to such a wild scheme? It seemed too absurd to be possible. And yet-- His mind still played with the idea.