sure it was worth more.

Down in the bottom of the trunk was an inlaid box that she did not
remember having seen before. She slid back the cover and found a lace
handkerchief, a broken cuff-button, a gold locket enamelled with black,
a long fan-chain of gold, set with amethysts, a small gold-framed mirror
evidently meant to be carried in a purse or hand-bag, a high shell comb
inlaid with gold and set with amethysts, and ten of the dozen large,
heavy gold hairpins which Ambrose North, in an extravagant mood, had
ordered made for the shining golden braids of his girl-wife.

[Sidenote: A Photograph]

On the bottom of the box, face down, was a photograph. Barbara took it
out, wonderingly, and started in amazement as her own face looked back
at her. On the back was written, in the same clear hand as the letter:
"For my son, or daughter. Constance North." Below was the date--just a
month before Barbara was born.

The heavy hair, in the picture, was braided and wound around the shapely
head. The high comb, the same that Barbara had just taken out of the
box, added a finishing touch. Around the slender neck and fair, smooth
shoulders fell the Duchess lace that trimmed the brocade gown. The
amethyst brooch, with two of the three tassels plainly showing, was
pinned into the lace on the left side, half-way to the shoulder.

But it was the face that interested Barbara most, as it was the
counterpart of her own. There was the same broad, low forehead, the
large, deep eyes with long lashes, the straight little nose, and the
tender, girlish mouth with its short upper lip, and the same firm,
round, dimpled chin. Even the expression was almost the same, but in
Constance's deep eyes was a certain wistfulness that the faint smile of
her mouth could not wholly deny.

The woman who looked back at her daughter seemed strangely youthful.
Barbara felt, in a way, as though she were the mother and Constance the
child, for she was older, now, than her mother had been when she died.
The years of helplessness and struggle had aged Barbara, too.

[Sidenote: A Sweet Face]

The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon came into the attic, but Barbara
still studied the sweet face of the picture. Constance was made for
love, and love had come when it was too late. What tenderness she was
capable of; what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, if
her heart bade her go! And what courage must have nerved her dimpled
hands when she opened