“It was only natural on my part,” she said amiably. “I shall never forget when poor Flossie died. You remember Flossie, don't you? She used to look so pretty, with her blue bow in her hair, and no one will ever persuade me that she was n't poisoned by the people next door; they were dreadful people. I wish I could remember their name; it was something like Blunks. Anyhow, I was inconsolable, and Mrs. Tawley asked me to stay with her to get over it. I shall never forget how grateful I was. I'm sure you 're looking quite poorly, John,” she added in her inconsequent way. “Let me get you a cup of tea. It will do you good.” John declined. He wanted to accomplish his errand, but the longer he remained in the company of this lady devoid of the sense of values, the more absurd did that errand seem. A less obstinate man than he would have abandoned it, but John had made up his mind to act on Herold's suggestion, although he mentally bespattered the suggester with varied malediction. He rose and, making his way between the flimsy chairs and tables, stood on the hearth-rug, his hands in his pockets. Unconsciously he scowled at his placid and smiling aunt, who remained seated on the couch, her helpless hands loosely folded on her lap. “Did you ever hear of a child called Unity Blake?” “Was that the girl--” “Yes.” “What an outlandish name! I often wonder how people come to give such names to children.” “Never mind her name, my dear aunt,” said John, gruffly. “I want to tell you about her.” He told her--he told her all he knew. She listened, horror-stricken, regarding him with open mouth and streaming eyes. “And what do you think is my duty?” asked John, abruptly. Miss Lindon shook her head. “I 'm sure I don't know what to advise you, dear. I 'll try to find out some kind Christian people who want a servant.” “I don't want any kind Christian people at all,” said John. “I'm going to make up in ease and happiness for all the wrongs that humanity has inflicted on her. I am going to adopt her, educate her, fill her up with the good things of life.” “That's very fine of you, John,” said Miss Lindon. “Some people are as fond of their adopted children as of their own. I remember Miss Engleshaw adopted a little child. She was four, if I remember right, and she used to dress her so prettily. I used to go and help her choose frocks. Really they were quite expensive. Now I come to think of it, John, I could help you that way with little Unity. I don't think gentlemen have much experience in choosing little girls' frocks. How old is she?” “Nearly sixteen,” said John. “That's rather old,” said Miss Lindon, from whose mind this new interest seemed to have driven the tragic side of the question. “It's a pity you could n't have begun when she was four.” “It is,” said John. “Only if you had begun with her at four, you would n't be wanting to adopt her now,” said Miss Lindon, with an illuminating flash of logic. “Quite so,” replied John.