d. "Where have I seen you before?"

"Look sharply, Uncle John," laughed Marjorie, who had joined them. "You
have never seen Mary before. She is like someone you know."

"'Someone you know,'" repeated the old man faithfully. He would never
outgrow his quaint habit of repetition, although he had improved
immensely in other ways since the change in Constance's fortune had
released him from the clutch of poverty.

Mary eyed him curiously. Then her gaze rested on Mr. Stevens. What
peculiar persons they were. And Marjorie had never written her of them.
They must have a strange history. She made up her mind that she would
never ask her fickle chum about them. She would find out whatever she
wished to know from others. Now that she was a pupil of Sanford High she
would soon become acquainted with girls of her class other than those
she had already met. Perhaps she might learn to like some one better
than---- Her sober reflections stopped there. She could not bring
herself to the point of breaking her long comradeship with the girl who
had failed her.

Uncle John Roland was still staring at her and smilingly shaking his
gray head. "I don't know. I can't think, and yet----"

Suddenly a jubilant little shout rent the air, causing the group about
the piano to smile. In the same instant Mary felt a small hand slip into
hers. "I knew you comed to see Charlie again. Charlie wouldn't go to bed
because Connie said you'd surely come. Charlie loves you a whole lot.
You look like Connie."

"Look like Connie," muttered Uncle John. Then his faded eyes flashed
sudden intelligence. "I know. Of course she's like Connie. I guessed it,
didn't I?" He glanced triumphantly at Marjorie.

"So you did, Uncle John," nodded Marjorie brightly.

Mr. Stevens gazed searchingly at the young girl so like his foster
daughter. Mary felt her color rising under that penetrating gaze. It was
as though this dreamy-eyed man with the dark, sad face had read her very
soul. For a brief instant she sensed dimly the ignobleness of her
jealousy of his daughter. She felt that she would rather die than have
him know it. Perhaps, after all, she was in the wrong. She would try to
dismiss it and do her best to enter into the spirit of the merry-making.
An impatient tug at her hand caused her to remember Charlie's presence.

"Talk to me," demanded the child. "Connie says I have to go to bed in a
minute, so hurry up."

Mary stooped and wound her arms about the tiny, in