I hoped to
go to America and live with that lovely lady, your poor mother."

"Do you remember her well?" asked Donald, hesitating as to which one of
a crowd of questions he should ask first.

"Perfectly, sir. She was very handsome. Ah me! and so good, so grand!
The other lady--her husband's sister, I think, was very pretty, very
sweet and gentle; but _my_ lady was like a queen. I can see a trace of
her features--just a little--in yours, Mr.--Mr. Reed. I did not at
first; but the likeness grows on me."

"And this?" asked Donald, taking a photograph from his pocket. "Do you
see any resemblance here to my mother?"

She held it up to the light, and looked at it long and wistfully. "Poor
lady!" she said at last.

"Poor lady?" echoed Donald, rather amused at hearing his bright little
Dorry spoken of in that way; "she is barely sixteen."

"Ah, no! It is the mother I am thinking of. How proud and happy she
would be now with this beautiful daughter! For surely this _is_ your
sister's likeness, sir?"

Ellen Lee looked up quickly, but, reassured by Donald's prompt "Yes,
indeed," she again studied the picture.

It was one that he had carried about with him ever since he left
home--putting it upon the wall[1] or the bureau of his room, wherever he
had chanced to lodge; and it showed Dorothy just as she looked the day
before he sailed. He had gone with her to the photographer's to have it
taken, and for his sake she had tried to forget that they were so
suddenly to say "good-by."

"Ah, what a bright, happy face! A blessed day indeed it would be to me
if I could see you two, grown to a beautiful young lady and gentleman,
standing together--"

"That you _shall_ see," responded Donald, heartily, not because he
accepted the title of beautiful young gentleman, but because his heart
was full of joy to think of the happy days to come, when the shadow of
doubt and mystery would be forever lifted from the home at Lakewood.

"Is she coming? Is she here?" cried Madame Rene, who, misinterpreting
Donald's words, had risen to her feet, half expecting to see the young
girl enter the room.

"No. But depend upon it, you will go there," said Don. "You must carry
out the dream of your youth, and begin life in America. My uncle surely
will send for you. You know, I promised that you should hear of
something greatly to your advantage."

"But the ocean," she began, with a show of dread, in spite of the
pleasure that shone in her eyes. "I