have company." What she saw in that trunk set her to thinking her most
godmotherly thoughts.

The wax tapers were all lighted in each silver candelabra when Betty
went down the stairs, looking fresh and sweet as a wildflower in her
dress and ribbons of robin's-egg blue. When she slipped into the long
drawing-room, Lloyd was playing on the harp. Over her hung the portrait
of a beautiful young girl, also standing beside a harp. She was dressed
in white, and she wore a June rose in her hair and another at her
throat. Betty walked over and looked up at the picture long and
earnestly.

"That's my grandmothah, Amanthis," said Lloyd, pausing in her song, "and
that's the way she looked the first time grandfathah evah saw her. And
heah's Uncle Tom in his soldier clothes, and this is mothah's
great-great-aunt that was such a belle in the days of Clay and Webstah."

She led the way around the room, introducing Betty to all the old family
portraits, with interesting tales about each one. Then she went back to
her harp, and Betty sat down in front of the first picture again. "You
belong to me, too, in a way," thought Betty, looking up at it. "If you
are my godmother's mother, then you are my great-godmother, Amanthis,
and I love you because you are so beautiful."

The harp thrilled on, the fair face of the portrait seemed to smile back
at her, and in some vague, sweet way Betty felt that she had come back
to her own and had been welcomed home to the House Beautiful.