curtains and
portieres, and the somewhat disarranged furniture. "Come inside,
Margaret, and help us in our search."

"For what?" The widow tried to keep her tone natural, but a certain
shrill alertness crept into it and Barbara, who was watching her
closely, was quick to detect the change. Helen's color altered at the
question, and she observed the widow's entrance with veiled hostility.

"For my seal," Barbara answered. "The one with the big letter 'B.' Have
you seen it?"

"I?--No." The widow took a chair uninvited near Helen. "You look tired,
Helen dear; why don't you go to bed?"

"I could not sleep if I did." Helen passed a nervous finger across her
eyes. "But don't let me keep you and Babs up; it won't take me long to
arrange to-morrow's market order for Grimes."

Under pretense of searching for pencil and paper Helen contrived to see
the address of every letter lying on the table, but the envelope she
sought, with its red seal, was not among them. When she looked up again,
pencil and paper in hand, she found Mrs. Brewster leaning lazily back
and regarding her from under half-closed lids. "You are very like your
father, Helen," she commented softly.

The girl stiffened. "Am I? Babs and I are generally thought to resemble
our mother."

"In appearance, yes; but I mean mannerisms--for instance, the way of
holding your pencil, your handwriting, even, closely resembles your
father's." Mrs. Brewster pointed to the notes Helen was scribbling on
the paper and to an open letter bearing Colonel McIntyre's signature at
the bottom of the sheet lying beside the pad to illustrate her meaning.
"These are almost identical."

"You are a close observer." Helen completed her memorandum and laid it
aside. "What became of father?"

"He went to a stag supper at the Willard," chimed in Barbara, stopping
her aimless walk about the library. "He said we were not to wait up for
him."

Helen pushed back her chair and rose with some abruptness.

"I am more tired than I realized," she remarked and involuntarily
stretched her weary muscles. "Come, Margaret," laying a persuasive hand
on the widow's shoulder. "Be a trump and rub my forehead with cologne as
you used to do abroad when I had a headache. It always put me to sleep
then; and, oh, how I long for sleep now!"

There was infinite pathos in her voice and Mrs. Brewster sprang up and
threw her arm about her in ready sympathy.

"You poor darling!" she exclaimed. "Let me put you