howing her the pictures
of her grandfather and other ancestors, and they were hand-in-hand.

"Arnold," said Clara, "this is Iris, and I hope you will both be great
friends; Iris, this is my cousin, but he is not yours."

"I don't pretend to know how that may be," said the young lady. "But
then I am glad to know all your cousins, whether they are mine or not;
only don't bother me with questions, because I don't remember
anything, and I don't know anything. Why, until the other day I did
not even know that I was an English lady, not until they found those
papers."

A strange accent for an American! and she certainly said "laidy" for
"lady," and "paipper" for "paper," like a cockney. Alas! This comes of
London Music Halls even to country-bred damsels!

Arnold made a mental observation that the new-comer might be called
anything in the world, but could not be called a lady. She was
handsome, certainly, but how could Claude Deseret's daughter have
grown into so common a type of beauty? Where was the delicacy of
feature and manner which Clara had never ceased to commend in speaking
of her lost cousin?

"Iris," said Clara, "is our little savage from the American Forest.
She is Queen Pocahontas, who has come over to conquer England and to
win all our hearts. My dear, my Cousin Arnold will help me to make you
an English girl."

She spoke as in the State of Maine was still the hunting-ground of
Sioux and Iroquois.

Arnold thought that a less American-looking girl he had never seen;
that she did not speak or look like a lady was to be expected,
perhaps, if she had, as was probable, been brought up by rough and
unpolished people. But he had no doubt, any more than Clara herself,
as to the identity of the girl. Nobody ever doubts a claimant. Every
impostor, from Demetrius downward, has gained his supporters and
partisans by simply living among them and keeping up the imposition.
It is so easy, in fact, to be a claimant, that it is wonderful there
are not more of them.

Then luncheon was served, and the young lady not only showed a noble
appetite, but to Arnold's astonishment, confessed to an ardent love
for bottled stout.

"Most American ladies," he said impertinently, "only drink water, do
they not?"

Lotty perceived that she had made a mistake.

"I only drink stout," she said, "when the doctor tells me. But I like
it all the same."

She certainly had no American accent. But she would not talk much; she
was, perha