prepare for the night. Her two daughters were with her. Addie, the elder,
was at the looking-glass brushing her hair and half enveloped in its silky
blackness. She was a tall, graceful girl, a refined likeness of her mother.
On the rug lay Lottie, three years younger, hardly more than a growing
girl, long-limbed, slight, a little abrupt and angular by her sister's
side, her features not quite so regular, her face paler in its cloud of
dark hair. Yet there was a look of determination and power which was
wanting in Addie; and at times, when Lottie was roused, her eyes had a dark
splendor which made her sister's beauty seem comparatively commonplace and
tame.

Stretched at full length, she propped her chin on her hands and looked up
at her mother. "I don't suppose you care," she said, in a clear, almost
boyish voice.

"Not much," Mrs. Blake replied with, a smile. "Especially as I rather doubt
it."

Addie paused, brush in hand: "I really think you've made a mistake,
Lottie."

"Do you really? I haven't, though," said that young lady decidedly.

"It can't be--surely," Addie hesitated, with a little shadow on her face.

"Of course no. Is it likely?" said Mrs. Blake, as if the discussion were
closed.

"I tell you," said Lottie stubbornly, "Godfrey Hammond told me that
Percival's father was the eldest son."