re years afterward at a
fabulous price. She only knew it was beautiful in its silvery sheen with
gleaming colors through it like jewels in the dew.

On through another open doorway she caught a glimpse of a painting on the
wall. It was a man as large as life, sitting in a chair; and the face and
attitude were her father's--her father at his best. She was fairly
startled. Who was it? Could it be her father? And how had they made this
picture of him? He must be changed in those twenty years he had been gone
from home.

Then the butler came back, and before he could speak she pointed toward
the picture. "Who is it?" she asked.

"That, miss? That's Mr. John, Madam's husband that's dead a good many
years now. But I remember him well."

"Could I look at it? He is so much like my father." She walked rapidly
over the ancient rug, unheeding its beauties, while the wondering butler
followed a trifle anxiously. This was unprecedented. Mrs. Sands's
errand-girls usually knew their place.

"Madam said you was to come right up to her room," said the butler
pointedly. But Elizabeth stood rooted to the ground, studying the picture.
The butler had to repeat the message. She smiled and turned to follow him,
and as she did so saw on a side wall the portraits of two boys.

"Who are they?" she pointed swiftly. They were much like her own two
brothers.

"Them are Mr. John and Mr. James, Madam's two sons. They's both of them
dead now," said the butler. "At least, Mr. James is, I'm sure. He died two
years ago. But you better come right up. Madam will be wondering."

She followed the old man up the velvet-shod stairs that gave back no
sound from footfall, and pondered as she went. Then that was her father,
that boy with the beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back from
his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don't-care look. And here was
where he had lived. Here amid all this luxury.

Like a flash came the quick contrast of the home in which he had died, and
a great wave of reverence for her father rolled over her. From such a home
and such surroundings it would not have been strange if he had grown weary
of the rough life out West, and deserted his wife, who was beneath him in
station. But he had not. He had stayed by her all the years. True, he had
not been of much use to her, and much of the time had been but a burden
and anxiety; but he had stayed and loved her--when he was sober. She
forgave him his many trying ways, h