d Cynthia? What would he
think of it all! While she was hesitating, an idea came to her.

"There is one of the family here to-day on--on business," she said, at
last. "If you will give me your name, I will ask if--that person would
like to see you."

"Oh, that is hardly worth while!" he said, hastily. "My name is
Calthorpe,--but I'm sure they wouldn't remember me after all this time,
and I do not wish to trouble them." But Joyce had excused herself and
turned away, as soon as she heard the name, leaving him standing there.
Mrs. Collingwood, however, shook her head when Joyce announced who was
outside.

"I do not remember any one named Calthorpe, and I scarcely feel that I
can see a stranger now. But we must not be inhospitable. Miss Cynthia
and I will go and sit in the library, and you can bring him into the
drawing-room a few moments. There is no other part of the house that can
very well be shown." She took Cynthia's arm, walked into the library,
and partly closed the door, while Joyce went out to admit the stranger.

"If you care to look around the drawing-room, you will be most welcome,"
she announced politely. He accepted the invitation gratefully, and
entered with her. At the first glance, however, he started back
slightly, as with a shock of surprise.

"Why, how strange--how very singular!" he murmured. "These
candles--everything--everything just the same as though it were
yesterday!"

"Did you often come here?" inquired Joyce. "You must be very well
acquainted with the house!"

"Yes. I came often. I was almost like an inmate." He began to wander
slowly about the room, examining the pictures. In front of the baby
twins he paused a long time.

"Then you must have known young Mr. Fairfax very well," suggested Joyce.
"That's he, on the right in the picture." The stranger eyed her
curiously.

"Why, yes, I knew him well. But you, little lady, seem quite intimate
with the Collingwood family history. Tell me, are you a--a relative?"
This confused Joyce anew.

"Oh, no! Just a--just a friend!" she explained. "But I have been told a
good deal about them."

"An unhappy family!" was his only comment, and he continued his tour
around the room. In front of the old, square, open piano he paused
again, and fingered the silk scarf that had, at some long ago date, been
thrown carelessly upon it. Then he ran his fingers lightly over the
yellow keys. The tones were unbelievably jangling and discordant, yet
Joyce thou