The proprietor was both proud and pleased to say that IT WAS! It was the
work of a Miss Brown, a young girl student; in fact, a mere schoolgirl
one might say. He could show her others of her pictures.

Thanks. But could he tell her if this portrait was from life?

No doubt; the young lady had a studio, and he himself had sent her
sitters.

And perhaps this was the portrait of one that he had sent her?

No; but she was very popular and becoming quite the fashion. Very
probably this gentleman, who, he understood, was quite a public
character, had heard of her, and selected her on that account.

The lady's face flushed slightly. The photographer continued. The
picture was not for sale; it was only there on exhibition; in fact it
was to be returned to-morrow.

To the sitter?

He couldn't say. It was to go back to the studio. Perhaps the sitter
would be there.

And this studio? Could she have its address?

The man wrote a few lines on his card. Perhaps the lady would be kind
enough to say that he had sent her. The lady, thanking him, partly
lifted her veil to show a charming smile, and gracefully withdrew. The
photographer was pleased. Miss Brown had evidently got another sitter,
and, from that momentary glimpse of her face, it would be a picture as
beautiful and attractive as the man's. But what was the odd idea that
struck him? She certainly reminded him of some one! There was the same
heavy hair, only this lady's was golden, and she was older and more
mature. And he remained for a moment with knitted brows musing over his
counter.

Meantime the fair stranger was making her way towards the river suburb.
When she reached Aunt Chloe's cottage, she paused, with the unfamiliar
curiosity of a newcomer, over its quaint and incongruous exterior. She
hesitated a moment also when Aunt Chloe appeared in the doorway, and,
with a puzzled survey of her features, went upstairs to announce a
visitor. There was the sound of hurried shutting of doors, of the moving
of furniture, quick footsteps across the floor, and then a girlish laugh
that startled her. She ascended the stairs breathlessly to Aunt Chloe's
summons, found the negress on the landing, and knocked at a door which
bore a card marked "Studio." The door opened; she entered; there were
two sudden outcries that might have come from one voice.

"Sophonisba!"

"Marianne!"

"Hush."

The woman had seized Sophy by the wrist and dragged her to the window.
There wa