ow a really beautiful spot. Mrs. Crawford was ill so long that
it seems like a dream to her."

"And did no one ever hear of the other child?"

"What was there to hear? The mother claimed it."

"The woman dying in yonder room claimed the child first, ignorantly,
then believing the mother dead, took it in the place of her poor
murdered child."

"No!" The doctor sprang up and began to pace the floor. "Why, then, that
young girl--"

"Miss Arran will you tell the other side of the story. Why it seems to
me there can be no mistake," said Mrs. Barrington.

"Well--this is most marvelous. Does the girl know--"

"Oh, she protests. I think she has no idea. But the mother fancies we
may find some relative, a father perhaps, for she truly believes the
mother dead."

"But this confession--would she repeat it again?"

"I think she spoke of having it written out somewhere."

"It must be well authenticated, you know. And--what steps have you
considered?"

"None. Tomorrow will be Sunday--they will all go to church to give
thanks; then on Christmas day they are to have a small family dinner.
You and Mrs. Kendricks and myself, two or three dear old friends, and it
would be hardly wise to mar the sacredness of the occasion. We may see
our way more clearly, I would not like to have Miss Boyd disturbed on
uncertainties."

"I will take a further look at her," said the doctor. "I have known
cases like hers to last weeks, even when strength seemed to be almost
gone."

He wanted also to see Miss Boyd again. He had not noticed her
critically. Mrs. Barrington had spoken of the likeness that had puzzled
her in the beginning, the elusive resemblance to Mrs. Crawford in her
girlhood, as for two years she had been at school. He paused at the
door. She was standing by the window her profile distinctly outlined. It
was classic, from the broad, shapely forehead, the down-dropped eyelids
with their dark fringe, the straight nose with the fine, flexible
nostrils, the rounded chin, the lips that seemed to shut in sadness and
longing, but it was the poise of the head, the arching neck, the
shoulders proud enough for a statue. It needed more real youthfulness
for sixteen, but one could trace resemblances.

Did she feel the scrutiny? She turned. The front view was more girlish.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "mother is sleeping. Is it a bad sign for her to
sleep so much?"

"It gives her rest and saves the wear on her nerves. You are a watchful
nurs