because--because my father is so different from what my mother
was."

Mary Louise was holding her trembling hand now and stroking it
sympathetically.

"Tell us about your mother," she said softly. "Is it long since you
lost her?"

"More than four years," returned Alora. "I was her constant companion
and she taught me to love art and music and such things, for art was
her hobby. I did not know my father in those days, you see, for--for--
they did not live together. But in her last illness mamma sent for him
and made him my guardian. My mother said that my father would love me,
but she must have misjudged him."

Colonel Hathaway had listened with interest.

"Tell me your mother's name," said he.

"She was Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, and--"

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Why, I knew Antoinette Seaver before
she married, and a more beautiful and cultured woman I never met. Her
father, Captain Seaver, was my friend, and I met his daughter several
times, both at his mining camp and in the city. So you see, my dear, we
must be friends."

Alora's eyes fairly glistened with delight and Mary Louise was as
pleased as she was surprised.

"Of course we're friends!" she cried, pressing the girl's hand, "and
isn't it queer we have come together in this singular manner? In a
foreign country! And just because our carriage-wheel happened to
break."

"I thought your mother married an artist," said Mary Louise's
grandfather, reflectively.

"She did. At least, she _thought_ Jason Jones was an artist," answered
Alora with bitter emphasis. "But he was, in fact, a mere dauber. He
became discouraged in his attempts to paint and soon after he took me
to New York he destroyed all his work--really, it was dreadful!--and
since then he has never touched a brush."

"That is strange," mused the Colonel. "I once saw a landscape by Jason
Jones that was considered a fine conception, skillfully executed. That
was the opinion of so good a judge as Captain Seaver himself.
Therefore, for some reason the man's genius must have forsaken him."

"I think that is true," agreed Alora, "for my mother's estimate of art
was undoubtedly correct. I have read somewhere that discouragement
sometimes destroys one's talent, though in after years, with proper
impulse, it may return with added strength. In my father's case," she
explained, "he was not able to sell his work--and no wonder. So now he
does nothing at all but read, and even that doesn't s