" Face to face at last with those of her own
blood, dead though they were!

The little mother was not more than two or three and twenty: the big
strong father was about twenty-five. She had never been shown the
picture, nor had even guessed its existence. Since she was old enough to
think about it all, she had wondered what her father and mother looked
like.

[Sidenote: Her Father's Letter]

Thrilled with a new, mysterious sense of kinship, she dwelt lovingly
upon every line of the pictured faces, holding the photograph safely
beyond the reach of the swift-falling tears. She was no longer
fatherless, motherless; alone. Out of the dust of the past, like some
strangely beautiful resurrection, these two had come to her, richly
dowered with personality.

It was late when she put down the picture and took up the letter, which
was addressed to Grandmother Starr. She took it out of the envelope,
unfolded the crackling, yellowed pages, and read:

"Dear Mother;

"Since writing to you yesterday that I was going up north on the
_Clytie_, I have been thinking about the baby, and that it might
be wise to provide for her as best I can in case anything should
happen to me. So I enclose a draft for eleven thousand five
hundred dollars made payable to you. I have realised on my
property here, but this is all I have aside from my
passage-money and a little more, and, if I land safely, I shall
probably ask you to return at least a large part of it.

"But, if the ship should go down, as I sincerely hope it won't,
she will be sure of this, for her clothing and education. In
case anything should happen to her, of course I would want you
and Matilda to have the money, but if it doesn't, give Rosemary
everything she needs or wants while the money lasts, and oh,
mother, be good to my little girl!

"Your loving son,

"Frank."

[Sidenote: The Truth of the Matter]

In a flash of insight Rosemary divined the truth. The gold hidden behind
the loose brick in the chimney was hers, given to her by her dead
father. And she had not even a postage stamp!

But swiftly her anger died away in joy--a joy that surged and thrilled
through her as some white, heavenly fire that warmed her inmost soul.
Not alone, but cared for--sheltered, protected, loved. "Oh," breathed
Rosemary, with her eyes shining; "Father, dear father--my father