picture of him? He must be changed in those twenty years he had been gone
from home.

Then the butler came back, and before he could speak she pointed toward
the picture. "Who is it?" she asked.

"That, miss? That's Mr. John, Madam's husband that's dead a good many
years now. But I remember him well."

"Could I look at it? He is so much like my father." She walked rapidly
over the ancient rug, unheeding its beauties, while the wondering butler
followed a trifle anxiously. This was unprecedented. Mrs. Sands's
errand-girls usually knew their place.

"Madam said you was to come right up to her room," said the butler
pointedly. But Elizabeth stood rooted to the ground, studying the picture.
The butler had to repeat the message. She smiled and turned to follow him,
and as she did so saw on a side wall the portraits of two boys.

"Who are they?" she pointed swiftly. They were much like her own two
brothers.

"Them are Mr. John and Mr. James, Madam's two sons. They's both of them
dead now," said the butler. "At least, Mr. James is, I'm sure. He died two
years ago. But you better come right up. Madam will be wondering."

She followed the old man up the velvet-shod stairs that gave back no
sound from footfall, and pondered as she went. Then that was her father,
that boy with the beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back from
his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don't-care look. And here was