ps generally are, to mistrust all mankind,
and she could not understand at all the kind of confidence which comes
of having the very thing presented to you which you ardently desire.
When they arrived in Chester Square, she found waiting for her a lady,
who was certainly not beautiful, but she had kind eyes, which looked
eagerly at the strange face, and with an expression of disappointment.

"It can't be the fringe," thought Lotty.

"Cousin Clara," she said softly and sweetly, as her husband had taught
her, "I am Iris Deseret, the daughter of your old playfellow, Claude."

"Oh, my dear, my dear," cried Clara with enthusiasm, "come to my arms!
Welcome home again!"

She kissed and embraced her. Then she held her by both hands, and
looked at her face again.

"My dear," she said, "you have been a long time coming. I had almost
given up hoping that Claude had any children. But you are welcome,
after all--very welcome. You are in your own house, remember, my dear.
This house is yours, and the plate, and furniture, and everything, and
I am only your tenant."

"Oh!" said Lotty, overwhelmed. Why, she had actually been taken on her
word, or rather the word of Joe.

"Let me kiss you again. Your face does not remind me as yet, in any
single feature, of your father's. But I dare say I shall find
resemblance presently. And indeed, your voice does remind me of him
already. He had a singularly sweet and delicate voice."

"Iris has a remarkably sweet and delicate voice," said Joe, softly.
"No doubt she got it from her father. You will hear her sing
presently."

Lotty hardly knew her husband. His face was preternaturally solemn,
and he looked as if he was engaged in the most serious business of his
life.

"All her father's ways were gentle and delicate," said Clara.

"Just like hers," said Joe. "When all of us--American boys and girls,
pretty rough at times--were playing and larking about, Iris would be
just sittin' out like a cat on a carpet, quiet and demure. I suppose
she got that way, too, from her father."

"No doubt; and as for your face, my dear, I dare say I shall find a
likeness presently. But just now I see none. Will you take off your
bonnet?"

When the girl's bonnet was off, Clara looked at her again, curiously,
but kindly.

"I suppose I can't help looking for a likeness, my dear. But you must
take after your mother, whom I never saw. Your father's eyes were full
and limpid; yours are large, and clear, and