"Mona Forester!" repeated Mona to herself, with a great inward start,
though she made no outward sign, while a feeling of bitter disappointment
swept over her heart.

It could not then have been a picture of her mother, she thought, for her
name must have been Mona Dinsmore, unless--strange that she had not
thought of it when she read that advertisement in the paper--unless she
had been the half-sister of her Uncle Walter.

"You hated _her_?" Mona murmured aloud, with her tender, devouring glance
fastened upon the beautiful face.

The tone and emphasis seemed to arouse all the passion of the woman's
nature.

"Yes, with my whole soul!" she fiercely cried, and before Mona was aware
of her intention, she had snatched the picture from her hands, and torn
it into four pieces.

"There!" she continued, tossing the fragments upon the floor, "that is
the last of that; I am sure! I don't know why I have kept the miserable
thing all these years."

Mona could have cried aloud at this wanton destruction of what she would
have regarded as priceless, but she dared make no sign, although she was
trembling in every nerve.

"Is the lady living?" she ventured to inquire, as she turned away,
apparently to fold a dress, but really to conceal the painful quivering