Mr. Latham glanced up. His ruddy face turned white as chalk.

Mollie never took her eyes from Mr. Latham's face. Miss Stuart, Bab,
Grace and Ruth stared at him.

But Mr. Latham did not notice any one of them. His jaw dropped. The cup
in his hand trembled. Still he did not speak.

Barbara broke the silence. "Mr. Latham, are you ill?" she asked. "May I
take your teacup from you?"

Mr. Latham shook his head. He continued to gaze steadily at Eunice.

Little Eunice was frightened by the strange man's stare. She trembled.
Her rosebud lips quivered. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Come to me, Eunice," Ruth called comfortingly. "See the candies I have
been saving for you! Mr. Latham, this is the little Indian girl who was
hurt. You remember that we have spoken of her before?"

"Will some one take the child away?" Mr. Latham asked, brokenly.

Mollie led Eunice back to her bedroom. Then she hurried in again to
rejoin the others.

"Miss Stuart, I owe you and your girls an explanation for my strange
conduct," Mr. Latham declared. "I feel, this afternoon, that I have seen
a ghost! I do not understand this Indian child's likeness to my dead
sister-in-law. I must seek an explanation somewhere. This little Eunice
is the living image of my brother's Indian wife--the poor girl whom our
cruelty drove from our home back to the tents of her own people to die. I
was told that her little child died with her. There is a mystery here
that must be solved. If this little girl is the daughter of my brother
and his Indian wife, one-half of my fortune belongs to her."

"Mr. Latham," Miss Stuart quietly interrupted him, "this Indian child has
an old grandmother who will be able to tell you whether this child has
any connection with you. I have always thought there must be some
explanation. The squaw has kept the child hidden for a purpose."

"You are right, Miss Stuart," Mr. Latham interrupted. "You tell me this
child's name is Eunice? Eunice was the name of my brother's wife. It is
also the Christian name for the female Indians of a certain tribe, but
there is little doubt, in my mind, of this girl's identity. The gold
chain about her throat was my brother's gift to his wife. That chain has
the story of my brother's love and courtship engraved on it in Indian
characters. But I am too much upset to discuss the matter any further
to-day. When can I see the Indian grandmother?"

"To-morrow," Miss Stuart replied quietly. "I would not advise