"I'll tell her you've come. Be seated," said the butler, and gave her a

chair in the dim hall just opposite the parlor door, where she had a

glimpse of elegance such as she had never dreamed existed. She tried to

think how it must be to live in such a room and walk on velvet. The carpet

was deep and rich. She did not know it was a rug nor that it was woven in

some poor peasant's home and then was brought here years afterward at a

fabulous price. She only knew it was beautiful in its silvery sheen with

gleaming colors through it like jewels in the dew.

On through another open doorway she caught a glimpse of a painting on the

wall. It was a man as large as life, sitting in a chair; and the face and

attitude were her father's--her father at his best. She was fairly

startled. Who was it? Could it be her father? And how had they made this

picture of him? He must be changed in those twenty years he had been gone

from home.

Then the butler came back, and before he could speak she pointed toward

the picture. "Who is it?" she asked.

"That, miss? That's Mr. John, Madam's husband that's dead a good many

years now. But I remember him well."

"Could I look at it? He is so much like my father." She walked rapidly

over the ancient rug, unheeding its beauties, while the wondering butler

followed a trifle anxiously. This was unprecedented. Mrs. Sands's

errand-girls usually knew their place.

"Madam said you was to come right up to her room," said the butler

pointedly. But Elizabeth stood rooted to the ground, studying the picture.

The butler had to repeat the message. She smiled and turned to follow him,

and as she did so saw on a side wall the portraits of two boys.

"Who are they?" she pointed swiftly. They were much like her own two

brothers.

"Them are Mr. John and Mr. James, Madam's two sons. They's both of them

dead now," said the butler. "At least, Mr. James is, I'm sure. He died two

years ago. But you better come right up. Madam will be wondering."

She followed the old man up the velvet-shod stairs that gave back no

sound from footfall, and pondered as she went. Then that was her father,

that boy with the beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back from

his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don't-care look. And here was

where he had lived. Here amid all this luxury.

Like a flash came the quick contrast of the home in which he had died, and

a great wave of reverence for her father rolled over her. From such a home

and such surroundings it would not have been strange if he had grown weary

of the rough life out West, and deserted his wife, who was beneath him in

station. But he had not. He had stayed by her all the years. True, he had

not been of much use to her, and much of the time had been but a burden

and anxiety; but he had stayed and loved her--when he was sober. She

forgave him his many trying ways, his faultfindings with her mother's many

little blunders--no wonder, when he came from this place.




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