nt.

"Why, there's Mr. Morrow!"

"Who's he?" queried Harold indifferently.

"Chris Morrow's father--don't you know? The one that gave me the pansy
pin."

"Oh! Where is he?"

"Over there by the post, right next to the girl in light pink."

"That's the man I came up with! But his name isn't Morrow--it's
Winship. He said so."

"Well, it looks just like him anyway," insisted Polly. "Perhaps it
isn't," she added disappointedly.

Before they reached the piazza steps, the stranger arose and went
inside.

"It doesn't walk like Mr. Morrow," admitted Polly. "But I wish he'd
stayed, I wanted to see him nearer."

For several days, however, no opportunity came for observing the man
at close range. In the big dining-hall, even if he chanced to be
there at the same time, he sat the entire length of the room away from
her, and they did not meet elsewhere. Then, one morning, at a turn of
the long piazza, they chanced to come face to face, and Polly, struck
by his remarkable resemblance to the father of her friend, could not
forbear to speak.

"I beg your pardon," she began, half afraid now that she had actually
started, "but aren't you Mr. Morrow,--the one I used to see at the
hospital in Fair Harbor?"

A puzzled look swept the man's face. Then he smiled.

"I think you are mistaken, little lady. My name is Winship, Bradford
Winship of New York."

"You look almost exactly like him," returned Polly, even now refusing
to be quite convinced, although there was not a trace of recognition
in the smiling face she was scanning.

"I seem to have two or three doubles around the country," he remarked.
"I am continually being taken for somebody or other. Sorry not to have
had the previous pleasure of your acquaintance, but I hope that we
may follow up the little we have made."

He left her with a deferential bow, and she ran to tell Patricia and
Ilga of her blunder. How Harold would have laughed! But he had left
for home as soon as it had been ascertained that the trains were
running on time.

The next day, returning to her apartment for a light wrap, after the
evening meal, Mrs. Illingworth passed her dressing-table, and stared
in amazement. The girls, in their room, heard her peremptory call.

"Patty, have you been meddling with my jewel cases again?"

"No, mamma, I haven't touched them," she answered comfortably.

"Are you sure? Think! Come here quick!"

Patricia sprang to obey. Her mother's voice was tense and sharp