Hortense, had a real affection for Sarah “because she was the weeckedest child of ’er age she ever see.”  There was nothing of which Sarah, from the very earliest age, did not seem aware.  Her mother’s gentlemen friends she valued according to their status in the house, and, as they “fell off” or “came on,” so was her manner indifferent or pleasant.  For Hortense, she had a real respect, but even that improper and brazen spirit quailed at times before her cynical and elfish regard.  To say of a child that there is something “unearthly” about it is, as a rule, to pay a compliment to ethereal blue and gold.  There was nothing ethereal about Sarah, and yet she was unearthly enough.  Squatting on the floor, her legs tucked under her, her head thrust forward, her large black eyes staring at the wall, her black hair almost alive in the shining intensity of its colours, she had in her attitude the lithe poise of some animal ready to spring, waiting for its exact opportunity.

When her mother, in a temper, struck her, she would push her hair back from her face with a sharp movement of her hand and then would watch broodingly and cynically for the next move.  “You hit me again,” she seemed to say, “and you will make a fool of yourself.”

She was aware, of course, of a thousand influences in the house of which her mother and Hortense had never the slightest conception.  From the cosy security of her cradle she had watched the friendly spirit who had accompanied (with hostile irritation) her entrance into this world.  His shadow had, for a long period, darkened her nursery, but she repelled, with absolute assurance, His kindly advances.

“I’m not frightened.  I don’t, in the least, want things made comfortable for me.  I can get along very nicely, indeed, without you.  You’re full of sentiment and gush—­things that I detest—­and it won’t be the least use in the world for you to ask me to be good, and tender, and all the rest of it.  I’m not like your other babies.”

He must have known, of course, that she was not, but, nevertheless, He stayed.  “I understand perfectly,” He assured her.  “But, nevertheless, I don’t give you up.  You may be, for all you know, more interesting to me than all the others put together.  And remember this—­every time you do anything at all kind or thoughtful, every time you think of any one or care for them, every time you use your influence for good in any way, my power over you is a little stronger, I shall be a little closer to you, your escape will be a little harder.”

“Oh, you needn’t flatter yourself,” she answered Him.  “There’s precious little danger of my self-sacrifice or love for others.  That’s not going to be my attitude to life at all.  You’d better not waste your time over me.”

She had not, she might triumphantly reflect, during these eight years, given Him many chances, and yet He was still there.  She hated the thought of His patience, and somewhere deep within herself she dreaded the faint, dim beat of some response that, like a warning bell across a misty sea, cautioned her.  “You may think you’re safe from Him, but He’ll catch you yet.”