Mrs. Tate ran her eyes over the pile of letters at her plate on the breakfast-table. She was a large, florid woman of forty, verging on stoutness, with an abundance of reddish-brown hair.

"What a lot of mail!" she said to her husband, who was absorbed in reading the "Daily Telegraph,"—a small man, with black hair and moustache tinged with gray, and small black eyes finely wrinkled at the corners. "Here's a letter from Amy dated at Cannes. They must have left Paris sooner than they intended; and here's something from Fanny Mayo,—an invitation to dinner, I suppose. Fanny told me she wanted us to meet the Presbreys next week,—some people she knew in Bournemouth."

"Fanny's always taking up new people," said Tate from behind his paper, "and dropping them in a month."

"And here's something else with a French stamp on it. Let me see. From Boulogne? It must be from Father DumÉny. Yes, I recognize the handwriting."

"Another subscription, I suppose," her husband grunted.

"He hasn't written for nearly a year. I wonder what started him this time. What a dear old soul he is! Do you remember the night we took him out to a restaurant in Paris and he was so afraid of being seen? I always laugh when I think of that."

"What's he got to say?"

With her knife, Mrs. Tate cut one end of the letter open, and her eye wandered slowly down the page.

"He's been ill, he says, but he's able to be about now. He came near running over here last summer, but he couldn't get away." For a few moments Mrs. Tate was absorbed in reading; then she exclaimed with a curious little laugh: "How funny! Listen to this, will you? He's left what he really wrote for till the end,—like a woman. He wants us to look after a protÉgÉe of his, a girl that he baptized, the daughter of an acrobat. Did you ever hear of such a thing? She's in the circus herself, and she's going to appear at the Hippodrome next week. She performs on the trapeze, and then she dives backward from the roof of the building—backward, mind you! Could anything be more terrible?"

"I should think she'd be right in your line," Tate replied without lifting his eyes from his paper. "She'll be something new. You can make a lion of her."

"Don't be impertinent, Percy. This is a very serious matter. It seems the girl's married and had a child about two months ago. She's going to resume her performances. She doesn't know a soul in London; so she'll be all alone."

"I thought you said she had a husband."

"So I did. He's given them a letter to us, but he doesn't think they'll present it. I suppose those theatrical people live in a world of their own. But of course I shall go to see her. Perhaps I can do something for her. Anyway, it'll be interesting to meet an acrobat. I've never known one in my life."

"As I said," her husband remarked, turning to his bacon and eggs, "you can introduce her into society. People must be tired of meeting artists and actors and musicians. She'll be a novelty."

"You're very disagreeable to-day, Percy," Mrs. Tate responded amiably, after sipping the coffee that had been steaming beside her plate. "You are always attributing the meanest motives to everything I do."

He gave a short laugh. "But you must acknowledge that you do some pretty queer things, my dear."

She ignored the remark, and a moment later she went on briskly: "I must go and see this acrobat woman—whoever she is. If I don't—"

"What's her name?" Tate asked, turning to his paper and searching for the theatrical columns.

"Madame Jules Le Baron, Father DumÉny calls her. But I suppose she must have a stage name. Most of them have."

"I don't see that name in 'Under the Clock!' The Hippodrome? No, it isn't there. I wonder if this can be the one: 'On Monday evening next, Mademoiselle Blanche, the celebrated French acrobat, will give her remarkable performance on the trapeze and her great dive from the top of the Hippodrome.'"

Mrs. Tate sighed.

"Yes, it must be. Mademoiselle Blanche! How stagey it sounds! I wonder what she's like."

"We might go to see her first and then we could tell whether she's possible or not."

"Go to the Hippodrome!"

"Yes, why not? It's perfectly respectable. Only it doesn't happen to be fashionable. In Paris, you know, it's the thing to attend the circus. Don't you remember the La Marches took us one night?"

"Yes, and I remember there was a dreadful creature—she must have weighed three hundred pounds—who walked the tight-rope and nearly frightened me to death. I thought she'd come down on my head."

"Then it's understood that we're to go on Monday? If we go at all we might as well be there the first night. It'll be more interesting."

Mrs. Percy Tate was a personage in London. For several years before her marriage, at the age of twenty-five, she had been known as an heiress and a belle. Even then she had a reputation for independence of character, and for an indefatigable zeal for reforming the world. Her name stood at the head of several charitable societies, and she was also a member of many clubs for the improvement of the physical and spiritual condition of the human race. Since her marriage she had grown somewhat milder; her friends used to say that Percy Tate had "trained" her. They also said that she had "made" him; without her money he would never have become a member of the rich firm of Welling and Company.

Percy Tate's business associates, however, knew the fallacy of this uncharitable opinion. With his dogged determination and his keen insight into the intricacies of finance, Tate was sure of forging ahead in time, with or without backing. His association with Welling and Company gave the house even greater strength than it had had before; for in addition to his reputation as a financier, he had made his name a synonym for stanch integrity. He had passed sixteen happy years with his wife, wisely directed her charities, wholesomely ridiculed her enthusiasms, followed her into the Catholic Church, where he was quite as sincere if a much less ardent worshipper; and in all the serious things of life he treated her, not as an inferior to be patronized, but as an equal that he respected, with no display of sentiment, but with sincere devotion. She, on her part, was amused by his humor and guided by his advice, though she often pretended to ignore it; and she never allowed any of her numerous undertakings to interfere with her regard for his comfort or the happiness of her home.

The manager of the Hippodrome had extensively advertised the appearance of Mademoiselle Blanche, and on Monday night the amphitheatre was crowded. The Tates arrived early in order to see the whole performance; as they had never been at the Hippodrome before, the evening promised to be amusing for them. Tate, however, became so interested in the menagerie through which they passed before entering the portion of the vast building devoted to the exhibitions in the ring that they remained there more than an hour. The interval between their taking seats and the appearance of the acrobat rather bored them.

"I wish they'd hurry up and let her come out," said Mrs. Tate. "And yet I almost dread seeing her make that horrible plunge. This must be the first time she's done it since the birth of her baby. Isn't it really shocking?"

"Oh, I suppose these people are as much entitled to babies as any other people."

She cast a reproachful glance at him, and did not reply for a moment. Then she said: "But what must her feelings be now—just as she's getting ready?"

"I dare say she's glad to get back to her work and earn her salary again. Her husband probably doesn't earn anything. Those fellows never do."

"She must be frightened nearly to death."

Tate laughed softly. "You'll die from worrying about other people."

"What are they doing now?" Mrs. Tate asked, turning her eyes to the ring. "I suppose that rope they're letting down is for her to climb up on, and that's the net she'll fall into. How gracefully that trapeze swings! I feel quite excited. Every one else is too. Can't you see it in their faces? There must be thousands of people here. How strange they look! Such coarse faces."

"It's the great British middle class. This is just the kind of thing they like."

"It reminds me of pictures of the Colosseum. I can almost fancy their turning their thumbs down. Here she comes. How light she is on her feet! And isn't she pretty! But she looks awfully thin and delicate, and she's as pale as a ghost."

"You'll attract all the people round us. Of course she's pale. She's probably powdered up to the eyes, like the women we used to see in Paris."

"How lightly she goes up that rope," Mrs. Tate whispered, "and what wonderful arms she has! Just like a man's. They look as if they didn't belong to her body."

Silently and dexterously Blanche reached the main trapeze, and for a moment she sat there, with her arms crooked against the rope on either side, and rubbing her hands. For the first time during her career she was terrified in the ring. She had hoped that as soon as she resumed her work the terror she had felt since Jeanne's birth would pass away. Now, however, it made her so weak that she feared she was going to fall.

She was thinking of the child as she had seen her crowing in the crib. If anything should happen to her she might never see Jeanne again. She was vaguely conscious of the vast mass of people below her, waiting for her to move. She took a long breath and nerved herself for the start, before making her spring to the trapeze below; she must have courage for the sake of the little Jeanne, she said to herself. Mechanically she began to sway forward and backward; then she shot into the air, and with a sensation of surprise and delight she continued her performance.

Mrs. Tate watched her with an expression of mingled fear, interest, and pleasure in her face.

"Isn't she the most wonderful creature you ever saw, Percy?" she cried, clutching her husband's arm. "It's horrible, yet I can't help looking. Suppose she should fall!"

"She'd merely drop into the net. There's nothing very dangerous about what she's doing now. Keep still."

"I never saw anything more graceful. She is grace itself, isn't she? See how her hair flies; I should think it would get into her eyes and blind her. I shall speak to her about that when I see her. I shall certainly go to see her."

In a round of applause, Blanche finished her performance on the trapeze and then began her posing on the rope, whirling slowly, with a rhythmic succession of motions to the net. Then Jules, in evening dress, with a large diamond gleaming in his shirt-front, stepped out on the net, and for an instant they conferred together. Suddenly she clapped her hands, bounded on the rope again, and while Jules held it to steady her motion, she climbed hand over hand to the top of the building. There she sat, looking in the distance like a white bird ready to take flight, her dark hair streaming around her head.

"I feel as if I were going to faint," Mrs. Tate whispered.

Her husband glanced at her quickly. "Yes, you'd better—in this crowd. A fine panic you'd create! Want to go out?"

She seemed to pull herself together. "No, I think I shall be able to bear it. If I can't, I'll look away. What's that he's saying? What horrible English he speaks! I can't understand a word. Oh!" she gasped, clutching her husband by one arm and holding him firmly as Blanche dropped backward and whirled through the air; and this exclamation she repeated in a tone of horrified relief when the girl struck the net, bounded into the air again, and landed on her feet.

They rose with the applauding crowd and started to leave the place. "In my opinion," said Mrs. Tate, clinging to her husband's arm and drawing her wrap closely around her, "in my opinion such exhibitions are outrageous. There ought to be a law against them. Think of that poor little creature going through that every night. Of course she'll be killed sometime. I wonder if she's afraid. I should think she'd expect every night to be her last."

"What nonsense you're talking. Of course those people don't feel like that. If they did they'd never go into the business. It's second nature to them."

"But they're human just like the rest of us, and that woman is a mother," Mrs. Tate insisted. "Don't you suppose she thinks of her baby before she makes that terrible dive? It's a shame that her husband should allow her to do it."

"There you are, trying to regulate the affairs of the world again. Why don't you let people alone? They'd be a good deal happier, and so would you. Her husband probably likes to have her do it."

"Well, I shall go to see her anyway," Mrs. Tate cried with determination. "Then I can find out all about her for myself."

For the next three weeks Mrs. Tate was absorbed by various duties in connection with her charitable societies. One morning, however, she suddenly realized that she had neglected to comply with Father DumÉny's request, and she resolved to put off her other engagements for the afternoon and call at once on the acrobat; if she didn't go then, there was no knowing when she could go. At four o'clock she found herself stepping into a hansom in front of her house in Cavendish Square.

The address that Father DumÉny had sent led her to a little French hotel with a narrow, dark entrance, dimly lighted by an odorous lamp. She poked about in the place for a moment, wondering how she was to find any one; then a door which she had not observed was thrown open, and she was confronted by a little man with a very waxed moustache, who smiled and asked in broken English what Madame wanted. She stammered that she was looking for Madame Le Baron, and the little man at once called a garÇon in a greasy apron, who led the way up the narrow stairs. When they had reached the second landing the boy rapped on the door, and Mrs. Tate stood panting behind him. For several moments there was no answer; then heavy steps could be heard approaching, and a moment later Madeleine's broad figure, silhouetted by the light from the windows from behind, stood before them. Mrs. Tate saw at a glance that she was French, and addressed her in her own language.

"Mais oui," Madeleine replied. "Madame is at home. Will Madame have the goodness to enter?"

"Say that I'm Father DumÉny's friend, please," said Mrs. Tate as she gave Madeleine a card. Then she glanced at one corner of the room, where a large cradle, covered with a lace canopy, had caught her eye. "Is the baby here?" she asked quickly, going toward it.

"Ah, no—not now. She sometimes sleeps here in the morning; but she is with her mother in the other room now."

Madeleine disappeared, and Mrs. Tate's eyes roved around the room. She recognized it at once as the typical English lodging-house drawing-room; she had seen many rooms just like it before, when she had called on American friends living for a time in London. It was large and oblong, facing the tall houses on the opposite side of the street that cut off much of the light; the wall paper was ugly and sombre, and the carpet, with its large flowery pattern, together with the lounge and chairs, completed an effect of utter dreariness.

Mrs. Tate wondered how people could live in such places; she should simply go mad if she had to stay in a room like this. Then she wondered why Madame Le Baron hadn't brightened up the apartment a bit; the photographs on the mantel, in front of the large French mirror, together with the cradle in the corner, were the only signs it gave of being really inhabited. How vulgar those prints on the wall were! They and the mirror were the only French touches visible, and they contrasted oddly with their surroundings. While Mrs. Tate was comfortably meditating on the vast superiority of England to France, the door leading to the next room opened and Blanche entered the room. She looked so domestic in her simple dress of blue serge that for an instant her caller did not recognize her.

She held out her hand timidly. "Father DumÉny has spoken to me about you," she said.

"Father DumÉny must think I am an extremely rude person. I meant to come weeks ago," Mrs. Tate replied, clasping the hand and looking down steadily into the pale face. "But I've been busy—so busy, I've had hardly a minute to myself. However, I did go to see you perform."

"Ah, at the Hippodrome?"

"Yes, the very first night. Mr. Tate and I went together. We were both—er—wonderfully impressed. I don't think I ever saw anything more wonderful in my life than that plunge of yours."

Mrs. Tate adjusted herself in the chair near the window, and Blanche took the opposite seat. "I'm glad you liked it," she said with a sigh.

"Liked it. I can't really say I did like it. I must confess it rather horrified me."

"It does some people. My mother never likes to see me do it—though I've done it for a great many years now."

"But doesn't it—doesn't it make you nervous sometimes?"

"I never used to think of it—before my baby was born."

"Ah, the baby! May I see her? Just a peep."

"She was asleep when I left," Blanche replied, unconsciously lowering her voice as if the child in the next room might know she was being talked about; "but she will wake up soon. She always wakes about this time. Madeleine is with her now, and she'll dress her and bring her in."

For a quarter of an hour they talked about the little Jeanne, and Blanche, inspired by Mrs. Tate's vivid interest and sympathy, grew animated in describing the baby's qualities; when she was born she weighed nearly nine pounds, and she had not been sick a day. Then she had grown so! You could hardly believe it was the same child. She very rarely cried,—almost never at night. Mrs. Tate had heard mothers talk like that before, but Blanche's naÏvetÉ lent a new charm to the narration; she kept in mind, however, their first topic, and at the next opportunity she returned to it.

"Then what do you do with the child at night?" she asked. "I suppose your servant goes to the circus with you, doesn't she? Of course you can't leave the baby alone."

"Ah, no," Blanche replied. "We have a little girl to stay with her."

Mrs. Tate was surprised. So these circus people lived as other people did, with servants to wait on them, with a nurse for the child. She had instinctively thought of them as vagabonds. On discovering that they were well cared for, she had a sensation very like disappointment; they seemed to be in no need of help of any sort. She was curious to know more of the life of this girl, who seemed so naÏve and had such a curious look of sadness in her eyes. Mrs. Tate deftly led Blanche to talk about her husband, and in a few minutes, by her questions and her quick intelligence, she fancied that she understood the condition of this extraordinary mÉnage.

Percy had been right; the wife supported the family and the husband was a mere hanger-on; but it was evident from the way he was mentioned that the romance still lasted. Then Blanche made a reference to Jules which led her visitor to make inquiries with regard to him, and these changed her view of the situation. So, before marriage, Monsieur had been in business, and he had probably given it up to follow his wife in her wanderings. She surmised that they were not absolutely dependent on the circus for their daily bread; perhaps this accounted for their comfortable way of living.

While apparently absorbed in conversation Mrs. Tate continued this train of thought. She had never known any one connected with the circus before, she explained with a smile; people who lived in London all the time were apt to be so very narrow and ignorant; but she wanted to hear all about it, and Madame must tell her. Blanche was able to tell very little, for she was not used to discussing her work. By adroit questioning, however, Mrs. Tate led her on to an account of her early career from her first appearance as a child with her father to her development into a "star" performer.

The narrative seemed to her wildly interesting. How fascinating it would be if she could persuade the girl to relate her story in a drawing-room! It would be the sensation of the winter. But this poor child never could talk in public, even in her own tongue.

"But do tell me," said Mrs. Tate, when Blanche had described the months her father had spent in teaching her to make the great plunge. "Doesn't it hurt your back? I should think that striking with full force day after day on that padded net would destroy the nervous system of a giant."

Blanche smiled and shook her head. "It never used to hurt. I've only felt it lately, since the baby was born," she said.

"Then it does hurt now?" Mrs. Tate cried eagerly.

"Sometimes. I feel so tired in the morning now. I never used to; and sometimes when I wake up my back aches very much. But I try not to think of it."

"But, my dear child, you ought to think of it. You mustn't allow yourself to be injured—perhaps for life."

Blanche turned pale. "Do you think it can be serious?" she asked timidly.

Mrs. Tate saw that she had made a false step. "Of course not—not serious. It's probably nothing at all. I haven't a doubt a physician could stop it easily. Have you spoken to any one about it?"

"No; not even to my husband. I shouldn't like to tell him. It would make him unhappy."

Mrs. Tate became thoughtful. "I wonder if Dr. Broughton couldn't do something for you. He's our physician, and he's the kindest soul in the world. I'm always sending him to people. Suppose I should ask him to come and call on you some day. Perhaps he'll tell you there's nothing the matter, and then you won't be worried any more." She glanced into the pale face and was startled by the look she saw there. "Oh, you needn't be afraid," she laughed. "He won't hurt you. But, of course, if you don't want him to come, I won't send him."

Blanche clasped her hands and dropped her eyes. "I think I should like to have him come if—if—my husband——"

"But he needn't know anything about it," said Mrs. Tate, with feminine delight at the prospect of secrecy. "We won't tell him anything. If he meets Monsieur Le Baron here you can just say I sent him to call on you. Besides, he can come some time when your husband isn't here," she added with a smile.

"Jules generally goes out in the afternoon," Blanche replied, feeling guilty at the thought of concealing anything from him. "He likes to read the French papers in a cafÉ in the Strand."

"Then I'll tell Dr. Broughton to come some afternoon. He'll be delighted. I don't believe he's ever known an acrobat either," she laughed.

They talked more of Blanche's symptoms, and Mrs. Tate speedily discovered that since the birth of the baby Blanche had not been free from terror of her work; every night she feared might be her last. She did not confess this directly, but Mrs. Tate gathered it from several intimations and from her own observations. She felt elated. What an interesting case! She had never heard of anything like it before. This poor child was haunted with a horrible terror! This accounted for the pitiful look of distress in her eyes. Then Mrs. Tate's generous heart fairly yearned with sympathy; but this she was careful to conceal. She saw that by displaying it she would do far more harm than good; so she pretended to be amused at the possibility of Blanche's injuring herself in making the plunge.

"It must have become second nature to you," she said, "after all these years. You're probably a little tired and nervous. Dr. Broughton will give you a tonic that will restore your old confidence. Meantime," she added enthusiastically, "I'm going to take care of you. I'm coming to see you very often, and I shall expect you to come to see me. Let me think; this is Thursday. On Sunday night you and Monsieur Le Baron must come and dine with us at seven o'clock. We'll be all alone. I sha'n't ask any one. But wait a minute. Why wouldn't that be a good way for your husband to meet Dr. Broughton? I'll ask him to come, too. He often looks in on Sundays. That will be delightful."

She rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. "I suppose I must go without seeing the baby. But I shall——" She looked quickly around at the clicking sound that seemed to come from the door. Then the door opened, and Jules, in a heavy fur-trimmed coat and silk hat, stood before her. She recognized him at once, and as he bowed hesitatingly, she extended her hand and relieved the awkwardness of the situation. "I won't wait for Madame to introduce me," she said, just as Blanche was murmuring her name.

"Then you are the lady Father DumÉny spoke to us about!" Jules said with a smile.

"Yes; and your wife and I have become the best of friends already."

"And you've made friends with the baby too, I hope," Jules replied, removing his coat and throwing it over a chair. She liked his face more than she had done at the Hippodrome; he had a good eye, and, for a Frenchman, a remarkably clear complexion.

"No; she's asleep," Blanche replied. "I asked Madeleine to bring her in if she woke up."

"But you must see her," Jules insisted. "I'll go and take a peep at her."

He went to the door leading to the next room, opened it softly, and glanced in. Then he made a sign that the others were to follow, and he tiptoed toward the bed where Jeanne lay sleeping, her face rosy with health, and her little hands tightly closed. Madeleine, who had been sitting beside the bed, rose as they approached and showed her mouthful of teeth.

For a few moments they stood around the child, smiling at one another and without speaking. Then they tiptoed out of the room, and closed the door behind them.

"I shall come again soon some morning," Mrs. Tate whispered, as if still afraid of disturbing the child, "when the baby's awake." Then she went on in a louder tone: "She's a dear. I know I shall become very fond of her. And you're coming to us next Sunday night," she added, as she bade Jules good-bye. "Your wife has promised. I shall expect you both. Perhaps I shall come before then; I want to get acquainted with Jeanne."

She kissed Blanche on both cheeks, after the French fashion. "I sha'n't forget, you know. We have great secrets together already," she laughed, turning to Jules as she passed out of the door.