always made her think of her father and mother; but then, perhaps, it
was because they were strangers in the land of beautiful pictures. At
any rate, the eyes seemed to belong to her, to follow her, as picture
eyes will, with a strange wistfulness; she could but wonder that the
possessor of such beautiful eyes could ever give his mother pain, part
from her in anger, and break her heart. Of this last he never knew; he
sent her a loving message at the end, begging her forgiveness; and she
gave it to him, so far as it can be accorded to the absent and the
dead--but it broke her heart. Then followed her search for his little
son, whom she had never found. If life had no losses, no mistakes, she
wondered where this missing little one was, in that indistinct shadowy
uncertainty where Oscar was. Would either ever be found?

Outside lay the park, bathed in afternoon sunshine; she could see it all
from the side window, and her young companion idling by the moat, where
the marsh marigolds were blooming bright and yellow in the sunshine.
There came a rustle as of a garment, and Madame Giche, leaning on her
gold-headed cane, appeared, travelling towards her.

"You here, my dear?" said she, in her gentle way, laying her hand on the
little girl's bright head.

"Yes, Madame Giche."

"Wouldn't you be better out in the sunshine with the rest, rather than
up here moping?"

"I wasn't moping, dear Madame Giche. I was looking at the pictures, and
thinking about them;" and the child gave a little forced laugh over her
confession.

"Well, what do you think of them all? Now, which do you think is the
handsomest face here?" And Madame Giche gave a sweeping glance round, as
she stood leaning on her stick.

"This is the face I like best," was the child's reply, glancing up at
that stranger face, "save for that of his mother."

"This is the face I like best, my dear, but he broke my heart. Do you
know who it is?" inquired the mother, a thrill in her voice.

"Yes, dear Madame Giche--your son," returned Inna, with a child's
sensitive shame at having listened to so much from Sybil.

"Then--then, you know his story?"

"Yes; Sybil told me. Forgive me, dear Madame Giche, if I ought not to
have heard it. Sybil said I might; it was no secret, when we were
talking of it." Inna's small fingers grasped Madame Giche's thin ones.

"Yes, dear; it is no secret."

The child stroked the hand she held, wondering what she ought to say
next, a tear t