believe _The Flower of Heathercliffe House_, would
be best, and at any rate I could put 'a true tale' after it. I'd have
it bound in red or green, with gilt edges, and a picture of Mercy on
the back."

The first step to such a flight of literary ambition was evidently to
discover the missing friends; until that was settled the whole point
of the volume would be lacking and it was useless to attempt even a
beginning. She came home one day after the usual morning walk in a
state of great excitement, overflowing with news to tell Linda, who,
having a bad cold, had been obliged to stay in the house.

"What do you think?" she cried, as they stood washing their hands
together in the bathroom, "I really believe I have found a clue at
last!"

"A clue to what?" asked Linda, who had forgotten all about the matter
by that time.

"Why, to Mercy Ingledew! Miss Coleman took us to Aberglyn this morning
and along the promenade, and we sat down for a rest on one of the
benches. Connie Camden and I were quite at the end, next to two
ladies, and I could hear everything they were talking about. One of
them, the tall, fair one, was most dreadfully sad, and said it had
left a blank, and the other, the short, fat one, seemed so sorry for
her and was trying to comfort her. 'When did you lose her?' she asked.
I couldn't hear the answer, because Connie was whispering to me, but
the short lady said: 'Dear me! as long ago as that? I am afraid you
can have very little hope of ever finding her now.' Then Connie
interrupted again, but I caught something about curly hair and such
winning ways. 'You believe she has been traced to this neighbourhood?'
the fat lady said; 'you are quite sure you would be able to know her
from any other?' 'I couldn't mistake,' the tall lady said; 'her eyes
alone would tell me even if she had utterly forgotten me!' It was just
growing most interesting when Miss Coleman got up and we had to go,
but I'm certain we're on the right track and it's Mercy they're
looking for. Don't you think it must be?"

"I don't know," said Linda doubtfully; "it might be somebody else."

"Oh! How could it be? It all exactly fits in with Mercy's story, and
the tall, fair lady was in deep mourning too."

"She wouldn't still be in mourning," said Linda; "it's fifteen years
since Mercy was lost."

"She might be; perhaps she made up her mind never to wear anything
else until she found her. Shall I tell Mercy?"

"No, I'm sure you had bette