said madam was not up yet; but Elizabeth told him she would wait.

"Is she sick?" asked Elizabeth with a strange constriction about her
heart.

"O no, she is not up yet, miss," said the kind old butler; "she never gets
up before this. You're from Mrs. Sands, I suppose." Poor soul, for once
his butler eyes had been mistaken. He thought she was the little
errand-girl from Madam Bailey's modiste.

"No, I'm just Elizabeth," said the girl, smiling. She felt that this man,
whoever he was, was not against her. He was old, and he had a kind look.

He still thought she meant she was not the modiste, just her errand-girl.
Her quaint dress and the long braid down her back made her look like a
child.

"I'll tell her you've come. Be seated," said the butler, and gave her a
chair in the dim hall just opposite the parlor door, where she had a
glimpse of elegance such as she had never dreamed existed. She tried to
think how it must be to live in such a room and walk on velvet. The carpet
was deep and rich. She did not know it was a rug nor that it was woven in
some poor peasant's home and then was brought here years afterward at a
fabulous price. She only knew it was beautiful in its silvery sheen with
gleaming colors through it like jewels in the dew.

On through another open doorway she caught a glimpse of a painting on the
wall. It was a man as large as life, sitting in a chair; and the face and
attitude were her father's--her father at his best. She was fairly
startled. Who was it? Could it be her father? And how had they made this