“Miss Barbara Preston [she read] will hold herself in readiness to enter upon the term of her service, previously understood to be five years. It is impossible, at the present instant, for the writer to state when the call will come; but the term of service will be reckoned from this eighteenth day of May, 19——. Miss Preston’s duties will comprise the conduct of a home, and the care and guardianship of a little child.” There was also enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope, containing a paper drawn up in legal form, binding one Barbara Preston, spinster, for and in consideration of the sum of four thousand dollars (herein acknowledged), to a term of continuous service, beginning on the eighteenth day of May, 19— and terminating on the same day of the month in the year 19—. The document was duly witnessed and bore, in lieu of signature, the imprint of a seal, with a device of crossed battle-axes and the single word _Invictus_. “You’re t’ sign right here,” said Mr. Bellows, indicating with his blunt forefinger the space below the seal. “Me an’ Peg Morrison ’ll witness the signature. I told him to wait outside, in case the’ was papers to sign. I’ll see to forwardin’ it for you. Le’ me see that there envelope; likely it’ll shed a little light on th’ identity o’ the party.” But the envelope bore merely the number of a post-office box, in a distant city. Mr. Bellows scratched his head and squinted his eyes into puzzled slits as he surveyed this unsatisfactory bit of evidence from every possible angle. “Wall, I don’t know,” he burst out at length, “es I’d trust that proposition teetotally, if it wasn’t fer the references. The man as bid ye in satisfied me the party he was representin’ was O.K. es t’ character an’ intentions.” He glanced shrewdly at the girl; but Barbara asked no questions. She was beginning to realize that while the shackles which had bound her to Jarvis were about to be loosed, this unknown master of her future had forged a new and perhaps heavier fetter. But her composed features betrayed nothing while she wrote her name clearly—Barbara Allen Preston—below the red seal, with its short but significant motto. Thomas Bellows went away after a little, taking with him the contract, duly signed, sealed, and ready to deliver, and Barbara, left quite alone in the disordered house, quietly locked the money away in a drawer of her desk. She turned to find Peg Morrison staring at her with eyes full of grief and consternation.