inly not Fanny Urquhart's son,' she stooped austerely, 'for she
never had one. Last year, too, I heard that my dear, dear Mrs Jameson
was dead. HER I hadn't met for many, many years. But, if I may venture
to say so, yours is not a Scottish face; and she not only married a
Scottish husband, but was herself a Dunbar. No, I am still at a loss.'

A miserable strife was in her chance companion's mind, a strife of anger
and recrimination. He turned his eyes wearily to the fast declining sun.
'You will forgive my persistency, but I assure you it is a matter of
life or death to me. Is there no one my face recalls? My voice?'

Miss Sinnet drew her long lips together, her eyebrows lifted with the
faintest perturbation. 'But he certainly knows my name,' she said to
herself. She turned once more, and in the still autumnal beauty, beneath
that pale blue arch of evening, these two human beings confronted
one another again. She eyed him blandly, yet with a certain grave
directness.

'I don't really think,' she said, 'you can be Mary Lawford's son. I
could scarcely have mistaken HIM.'

Lawford gulped and turned away. He hardly knew what this surge of
feeling meant. Was it hope, despair, resentment; had he caught even the
echo of an unholy joy? His mind for a moment became confused as if
in the tumult of a struggle. He heard himself expostulate, 'Ah, Miss
Bennett, I fear I set you too difficult a task.'

The old lady drew abruptly in, like a trustful and gentle snail into its
shocked house. 'Bennett, sir; but my name is not Bennett.'

And again Lawford accepted the miserable prompting. 'Not Bennett!... How
can I ever then apologise for so frantic a mistake?'

The little old lady took firm hold of her umbrella. She did not answer
him. 'The likeness, the likeness!' he began unctuously, and stopped,
for the glance that dwelt fleetingly on him was cold with the formidable
dignity and displeasure of age. He raised his hat and turned miserably
home. He strode on out of the last gold into the blue twilight. What
fantastic foolery of mind was mastering him? He cast a hurried look
over his shoulder at the kindly and offended old figure sitting there,
solitary, on the little seat, in her great bonnet, with back turned
resolutely upon him--the friend of his dead mother who might have proved
in his need a friend indeed to him. And he had by this insane caprice
hopelessly estranged her.

She would remember this face well enough now, he thoug