by the bedside, and dragged out this further testimony to
her claim--it was wrapped in layers of tissue-paper, like her father's
valentine--and displayed it with a touching pride. Before handing it to
Deb, she gazed at it with grotesquely distorted face, kissed it,
pressed it to her bosom, kissed it again, and moaned over it, rocking
to and fro; then, when she had pushed it from her, flung herself into
her former attitude of complete abandonment to grief.

Very calmly Deb carried the picture to the dressing-table, and held it
behind a candle. There he was, big, strong, healthy, manly, with that
clear brow, that square chin, that steady, good mouth; and he looked
her straight in the eyes. Was it possible that a countenance could so
deceive? No more tears from Deb for his untimely fate. Had it been his
face in the flesh, it could not possibly have gazed in that undaunted
way at hers; her expression would have withered him.

She returned to the morning-room--drawing-room also when no guests were
in the house--to report to her father.

"Mary has gone to bed," she said quietly. "She is very much upset by
this business. It appears there was something between her and Mr Carey.
She expected him to come back for her--"

"What! MARY?" cried Rose, waiting with Frances to say goodnight.

"There!" triumphed Frances, "what did I say?"

"MARY!" their father echoed Rose's surprised tone. "The dickens! You
don't say so. Poor little soul! Poor little girlie! Well, I never
thought of that. Did you, Deb?"

"Never, father. Not for a moment."

"I suppose it was the child. It must have been the child." Mr
Pennycuick was deeply concerned. "I wonder why he never said anything,"
he addressed Deb, when Rose and Frances had been sent to bed. "Eh, Deb?
Seems strange, don't it? We had so much talk together. Quite like a
sort of son, he was. Aye, I could have made a son of that fellow. Poor
lad!--poor lad! Suppose he thought it wasn't the straight thing to bind
a girl of ours till he was in a better position--it'd be just like him.
Well--but Mary, of all people!" (This was the puzzle to all.) "It must
have been the baby. She certainly did dote on that child, and 'love me,
love my dog'--eh? But to think of her keeping it so close all that
time! Afraid I'd make a fuss, I suppose. You could have told her, Deb,
that I don't stand in my children's way for the sake of my own
feelings; and a Carey of Wellwood isn't for us to sniff at either, if
he