"There he is, my girl," said her father, patting her on the back. "He's
not much to look at, and he treated you very shabby, but if you want him
I suppose you must have him."

"Want him?" repeated the incensed Miss Evans. "Want him? I tell you
it's not Bert. How dare he come here and call me Nan?"

"You used not to mind it," said Mr. Carter, plaintively.

"I tell you," said Miss Evans, turning to her father and brother, "it's
not Bert. Do you think I don't know?"

"Well, he ought to know who he is," said her father, reasonably.

"Of course I ought," said Mr. Carter, smiling at her. "Besides, what
reason should I have for saying I am Bert if I am not?"

"That's a fair question," said Jim, as the girl bit her lip. "Why should
he?"

"Ask him," said the girl, tartly.

"Look here, my girl," said Mr. Evans, in ominous accents. "For four
years you've been grieving over Bert, and me and Jim have been hunting
high and low for him. We've got him at last, and now you've got to have
him."

"If he don't run away again," said Jim. "I wouldn't trust him farther
than I could see him."