"I have been all over that. Miss Denham is an only child; she never had
a cousin. To-day she is precisely what the other would have been, with
restored health and three years added to her seventeen or eighteen."

"Upon my word, Ned, this is one of the oddest things I ever heard. I
feel, though, that you have got yourself into an unnecessary snarl.
Where does Miss Denham come from? She is not travelling alone? How did
you meet her? Tell me the entire story."

"There is nothing to tell, or next to nothing. I met the Denhams here,
six weeks ago. It was at the table d'hote. Two ladies came in and took
places opposite me--a middle-aged lady and a young one. I did not notice
them until they were seated; it was the voice of the younger lady that
attracted me; I looked up,--and there was the Queen of Sheba. The same
eyes, the same hair, the same face, though not so pale, and fuller; the
same form, only the contours filled out. I put down my knife and fork
and stared at her. She flushed, for I fancy I stared at her rather
rudely, and a faint mark, like a star, came into her cheek and faded. I
saw it as distinctly as I saw it the day she passed me on the country
road, swinging the flower in her hand."

"By Jove! it's a regular romance--strawberry mark and all."

"If you don't take this seriously," said Lynde, frowning, "I am done."

"Go on."

"I shall never know how I got through the endless courses of that
dinner; it was an empty pantomime on my part. As soon as it was over I