know, Sir Edgar?" he said, in great surprise.

"I have never even heard the name," I replied.

"Mademoiselle is the daughter of the late Sir Barnard's cousin; she has
been living here for the past five years. Sir Barnard, I believe,
adopted her. I thought perhaps Messrs. Moreland & Paine might have
mentioned her."

They had perhaps forgotten to do so, and I felt quite at a loss what to
do. However, if there was a lady in the house, I was bound to be
courteous; so I went to the drawing-room.

I attempt no description of that magnificent room, its treasures of art,
its statues, pictures, flowers, its wonders of bric-a-brac. For the
first minute my eyes were dazzled, and then I saw--

Well, I had read in the old poets' descriptions of sirens' wondrous
language, wondrous words telling of beauty almost divine in its
radiance--of golden hair that had caught the sunshine and held it
captive--of eyes like lode-stars, in whose depths men lost
themselves--of lovely scarlet lips that could smile and threaten. I saw
such loveliness before me now.

From the luxurious depths of a crimson velvet fauteuil rose a lovely
woman, who advanced to meet me with outstretched hands. Her mourning
dress fell in graceful folds around her tall, queenly figure, and from
the same dark dress her fair face and golden head shone out bright and
luminous as a jewel from a dark background.

"Sir Edgar Trevelyan," she said, "allow me to welcome you home."

Her voice was sweet and rich; she had a pretty, piquant accent, and the
play of her lips as she spoke was simply perfection.

"It is very lonely for you," she said. "There is great gloom over the
house, it is all sad and dark; but the brightness will come back in
time."

I touched the white hand she held out to me; it was warm and soft; the
touch of those slender fingers had a magical effect.

"I must apologize for not having seen you before," I said, "but until
five minutes ago I did not know you were in the house."

"No," she replied, with a faint sigh, "I can believe that."

"You must know," I continued, "that I am a complete stranger to the
family. I never saw any of them in my life. I never heard the name more
than five or six times."

"Then, as a matter of course," she said, "you never heard of me."

"I am at a loss to know whether I should address you as kinswoman or
not," was my confused reply.

"It would take a bench of lawyers to decide," she said. "My mother was a
favorite c