“That!” she said, loudly.  “That!  That’s not my Bert!”

“That’s what I told ’em,” said Mr. Carter, deferentially, “over and over again.”

“What!” said her father, loudly.  “Look again.”

“If I looked all night it wouldn’t make any difference,” said the disappointed Miss Evans.  “The idea of making such a mistake!”

“We’re all liable to mistakes,” said Mr. Carter, magnanimously, “even the best of us.”

“You take a good look at him,” urged her brother, “and don’t forget that it’s four years since you saw him.  Isn’t that Bert’s nose?”

“No,” said the girl, glancing at the feature in question, “not a bit like it.  Bert had a beautiful nose.”

“Look at his eyes,” said Jim.

Miss Evans looked, and meeting Mr. Carter’s steady gaze tossed her head scornfully and endeavored to stare him down.  Realizing too late the magnitude of the task, but unwilling to accept defeat, she stood confronting him with indignant eyes.

“Well?” said Mr. Evans, misunderstanding.

“Not a bit like,” said his daughter, turning thank-fully.  “And if you don’t like Bert, you needn’t insult him.”

She sat down with her back towards Mr. Carter and looked out at the window.

“Well, I could ha’ sworn it was Bert Simmons,” said the discomfited Mr. Evans.

“Me, too,” said his son.  “I’d ha’ sworn to him anywhere.  It’s the most extraordinary likeness I’ve ever seen.”

He caught his father’s eye, and with a jerk of his thumb telegraphed for instructions as to the disposal of Mr. Carter.

“He can go,” said Mr. Evans, with an attempt at dignity; “he can go this time, and I hope that this’ll be a lesson to him not to go about looking like other people.  If he does, next time, p’r’aps, he won’t escape so easy.”

“You’re quite right,” said Mr. Carter, blandly.  “I’ll get a new face first thing to-morrow morning.  I ought to have done it before.”

He crossed to the door and, nodding to the fermenting Mr. Evans, bowed to the profile of Miss Evans and walked slowly out.  Envy of Mr. Simmons was mingled with amazement at his deplorable lack of taste and common sense.  He would willingly have changed places with him.  There was evidently a strong likeness, and——­

Busy with his thoughts he came to a standstill in the centre of the footpath, and then, with a sudden air of determination, walked slowly back to the house.

“Yes?” said Mr. Evans, as the door opened and the face of Mr. Carter was thrust in.  “What have you come back for?”

The other stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him.  “I have come back,” he said, slowly—­“I have come back because I feel ashamed of myself.”

“Ashamed of yourself?” repeated Mr. Evans, rising and confronting him.

Mr. Carter hung his head and gazed nervously in the direction of the girl.  “I can’t keep up this deception,” he said, in a low but distinct voice.  “I am Bert Simmons.  At least, that is the name I told you four years ago.”