f be put into a cushiony chair and fussed over
with an unaccustomed sense of pleasure. The rain was coming down in
torrents, and she certainly was domiciled at Heartsease Farm for the
night. Somehow, she felt glad of it. Mrs. Hewitt was right in calling
Aunt Flora sweet, and Uncle Charles was a big, jolly, ruddy-faced old
man with a hearty manner. He shook Constance's hand until it ached,
threw more pine knots in the fire and told her he wished it would rain
every night if it rained down a nice little girl like her.

She found herself strangely attracted to the old couple. The name of
their farm was in perfect keeping with their atmosphere. Constance's
frozen soul expanded in it. She chatted merrily and girlishly, feeling
as if she had known them all her life.

When bedtime came, Aunt Flora took her upstairs to a little gable
room.

"My spare room is all in disorder just now, dearie, we have been
painting its floor. So I'm going to put you here in Jeannie's room.
Someway you remind me of her, and you are just about the age she was
when she left us. If it wasn't for that, I don't think I could put you
in her room, not even if every other floor in the house were being
painted. It is so sacred to me. I keep it just as she left it, not a
thing is changed. Good night dearie, and I hope you'll have pleasant
dreams."

When Constance found herself alone in the room, she looked about her
with curiosity. It was a very dainty, old-fashioned little room. The
floor was covered with braided mats; the two square, small-paned
windows were draped with snowy muslin. In one corner was a little
white bed with white curtains and daintily ruffled pillows, and in the
other a dressing table with a gilt-framed mirror and the various
knick-knacks of a girlish toilet. There was a little blue rocker and
an ottoman with a work-basket on it. In the work-basket was a bit of
unfinished, yellowed lace with a needle sticking in it. A small
bookcase under the sloping ceiling was filled with books.

Constance picked up one and opened it at the yellowing title-page. She
gave a little cry of surprise. The name written across the page in a
fine, dainty script was "Jean Constance Irving," her mother's name!

For a moment Constance stood motionless. Then she turned impulsively
and hurried downstairs again. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce were still in the
sitting room talking to each other in the firelight.

"Oh," cried Constance excitedly. "I must know, I must ask