The old lady sat suddenly erect in her chair.

"My dear," she cried, "you don't mean to say that you're Jane
Pendergast's niece! Now, that is queer! Why, this was her very house--we
bought it when the old gentleman died last year. But, come, we'll go
inside. You'll want to see everything, of course!"

It was some time before the young man came back from telephoning, and it
was longer still before Peters came with the new tire, and helped get
the touring-car ready for the road. The girl was very quiet when they
finally left the house, and there was a troubled look deep in her eyes.

"Why, Belle, what's the matter?" asked the young fellow concernedly, as
he slackened speed in the cool twilight of the woods, some minutes
later. "What's troubling you, dear?"

"Will"--the girl's voice shook--"Will, that was Aunt Jane's house. That
old lady--told me."

"Aunt Jane?"

"Yes, yes--the little gray-haired woman that came to live with us two
months ago. You know her."

"Why, y-yes; I think I've--seen her."

The girl winced, as from a blow.

"Will, don't! I can't bear it," she choked. "It only shows how we've
treated her--how little we've made of her, when we ought to have done