se's mouth.
Why, those tiny hands of hers could hold in a couple of
thorough-breds. Oh, she is a good sort; the Spooner girls swear by
her."

Miss Ferrers looked kindly at the young man; she liked to hear him
vaunting his cousin's excellencies after this unsophisticated fashion.
She had taken rather a fancy to this boyish, outspoken young fellow;
and her brother shared this liking. She was about to put a question to
him, when he suddenly started up with an exclamation, and the next
moment he had crossed the room and was standing before a picture, with
a very puzzled expression on his face. It was the portrait of a girl,
and evidently painted by a good artist. Of course it was she, Erle
told himself after another quick look; in spite of the smiling mouth,
he could not mistake her. There was the small, finely shaped head, set
so beautifully on the long neck; the coils of black hair; the dark,
dreamy eyes, which always seemed to hold a shadow in them.

"I beg your pardon; but I had no idea you knew Miss Davenport," he
said at last, looking at Margaret as he spoke. But it was Mr. Ferrers
who answered.

"Davenport? We know no one of that name, do we, Margaret? What does
Mr. Huntingdon mean? Is it some picture?"

"Yes, dear, Crystal's picture. Mr. Huntingdon seems to recognize it."

"Crystal? why, that is her name, too. I have heard Miss Trafford use
it a dozen times. As though there could be two faces like
that"--pointing to the canvas. "She looks younger, yes, and happier,
in the picture; but then, of course, one has never seen her smiling
like that. But it is Miss Davenport--ay, and to the life too."

"You must be mistaken," observed Mr. Ferrers in a voice so agitated
that Erle regarded him with astonishment. He was strangely pale, and
the hand that was grasping the chair back was visibly trembling. "That
is the portrait of our young cousin, Crystal Ferrers."

"Yes, our adopted child," added Miss Ferrers, "who left our home
nearly eighteen months ago."

Erle looked more puzzled than ever. "I can not understand it," he
said, in a most perplexed voice. "If she be your cousin, Crystal
Ferrers, why does she call herself Crystal Davenport? There can be no
question of identity; that is the face of the Miss Davenport I
know--the young governess who lives with the Traffords; that is the
very ring she wears, too"--with another quick glance at the hand that
was holding a sheaf of white lilies. But here Mr. Ferrers interrup