ome reason her mistress
wished to find out all she knew about this little girl.

"It isn't what you'd call a tenement house," she said; "the man who owns
it has made it into flats. He lives there himself, and has his shop, and
Mrs. Bond keeps house for him. It is a real nice place."

"I fail to see the difference," was the reply; "but, Caroline, why did
she think I was Mrs. Marvin? She called me so."

"I don't know, Miss Frances, unless it was Emma Bond's mistake. Her
mother did some sewing for Mrs. Marvin when she was staying here."

"Well, Caroline, if you see Mrs. Bond you need not say anything about
the mistake. You understand? I have a reason for wishing them to think I
am Mrs. Marvin, as in fact I am."

"I should like to know what it means," Caroline said to herself as her
mistress walked away.

"This is all very melodramatic and absurd, but I must have time to
consider," the lady was thinking as she entered her own room, and closed
the door behind her. "I must contrive to see her again."

Going to a cabinet, she took from an inner compartment a box, then she
had a long search for the key, and after it was found she sat with the
box on her lap gazing absently before her.

It was thirteen--almost fourteen years since she had lifted that lid.
She had thought never to open it, unless--well, unless the impossible
happened, and now a pair of brown eyes had aroused an irresistible
longing to look once more on something that lay hidden there. In vain
she told herself it was foolish, idle, worse than childish. She recalled
the burning anger and resentment with which she had put the box away so
long ago. Yes, and had she not just cause? But the touch of those young
lips was still fresh upon her own, and whether she would or not, was
carrying her back, back to the dear old days.

There was really very little in it, she reflected, as she began to look
over the contents; but a few trifles can mean so much sometimes. There
was a light brown curl, some photographs that showed how a certain
chubby, dimpled baby had developed into a manly boy of sixteen, a bundle
of letters in a schoolboy hand, and down at the very bottom, the thing
she was so anxious to see again, a lovely miniature of a boy of seven.

She gazed at it long and earnestly. Such a dear little face! and this
afternoon she had seen the same smile, had looked into the same eyes!
Jack's daughter! was it possible?

He had called her Frances, too; he had not