ce was trembling excitedly.

"'A tall, slender man, who stooped a little, Smiles,' he said. 'His face
was thoughtful and kindly. He had a close-clipped, pointed beard, and
wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyes were very blue, as blue as
your own, Rose. Tell me, does the picture mean anything to you?'

"I tried to visualize it, Don, and I could, as though it were some one
far, far off whom I could see through the mist.

"'My daddy, Philip,' I whispered; I could hardly speak at all, for my
throat was aching and I was crying."

She was crying, now, but did not realize it.

"'A sweet-faced woman, with wavy brown hair in which were golden glints
like yours,' he went on, monotonously; but this time I could not answer
at all."

Smiles stopped, and, for an instant, sobbed without restraint, with her
head against Donald's arm, and he ran his hand tenderly and unsteadily
over her hair.

Then she lifted her face, bathed in tears, and whispered, "You
understand, don't you, Don? After all the years, to remember, ever so
vaguely; but, still, to remember my former life, and to know my own
name! Oh, I can't help it ... I couldn't when he told me."

"Yes, yes. I understand, dearest."

"Philip went on, desperately, it seemed to me. 'Another picture, Smiles.
Can you see a spindle-legged, mischievous boy of ten, who loved his
little sister dearly; but teased her from morning until night. His name
was ...'

"'Tilly! Oh, I remember. At least, that was what baby Rose called him.'

"'Yes, she called him Tilly. She called him that because ... because she
couldn't say ... "Philip." Oh, little Rose, don't you understand? I came
to find a wife, and I have found ... a sister!'"

"But, his name ..." interrupted Donald.

"I know. I will tell you. But first, Donald, my poor father and mother.
I thought that perhaps I was to find them, too; but God willed
otherwise. Big Jerry was right. They ... they were both drowned."

Eager as he was to hear the rest of the story, the man could not but
keep silent, in understanding sympathy, until she was ready to proceed
of her own accord. It was once more as Smiles herself had written in her
letter to him, after Big Jerry's death. Happiness was tinged with grief,
for the night's strange disclosures had re-opened an old wound, long
since closed.

Finally she went on.

"I won't try to tell you the explanation in Philip's words; but it seems
that we used to live in Louisville. Philip's own fat