to think that he has left some one behind him. Arnold, that face upon
your canvas really has got eyes wonderfully like his, if it was not a
mere fancy, when I saw it yesterday. I am glad, I say, to give up
everything to the child of Claude."

"You think so kindly of him, Clara, who inflicted so much pain on
you."

"I can never think bitterly of Claude. We were brought up together; we
were like brother and sister; he never loved me in any other way. Oh,
I understood it all years ago. To begin with, I was never beautiful;
and it was his father's mistake. Well: this American followed up his
letter by a visit. In the letter he merely said he had come to London
with the heiress. But he called an hour ago, and brought me--oh,
Arnold, he brought me one more letter from Claude. It has been waiting
for me for eighteen years. After all that time, after eighteen years,
my poor dead Claude speaks to me again. My dear, when I thought he was
miserable on account of his marriage, I was wrong. His wife made him
happy, and he died because she died." The tears came into her eyes
again. "Poor boy! Poor Claude! The letter speaks of his child. It
says--" She opened and read the letter. "He says: 'Some day my child
will, I hope, come to you, and say: Cousin Clara, I am Iris
Deseret.'"

"Iris?" said Arnold.

"It is her name, Arnold. It was the child's grandmother's name."

"A strange coincidence," he said. "Pray go on."

"'She will say: Cousin Clara, I am Iris Deseret. Then you will be
kind to her, as you would to me, if I were to come home again.' I
cannot read any more, my dear, even to you."

"Did this American give you any other proof of what he asserts?"

"He gave me a portrait of Claude, taken years ago, when he was a boy
of sixteen, and showed me the certificate of marriage, and the child's
certificate of baptism, and letters from his wife. I suppose nothing
more can be wanted."

"I dare say it is all right, Clara. But why was not the child brought
over before?"

"Because--this is the really romantic part of the story--when her
father died, leaving the child, she was adopted by these charitable
Americans, and no one ever thought of examining the papers, which were
lying in a desk, until the other day."

"You have not seen the young lady."

"No; he is to bring her to-morrow."

"And what sort of a man is this American? Is he a gentleman?"

"Well, I do not quite know. Perhaps Americans are different from
Englishmen. I