So Faith knelt down, and I got all ready.

“And what shall I talk about?” said she.  “About Aunt Rhody, or Mr. Gabriel, or—­I’ll tell you the queerest thing, Georgie!  Going to now?”

“Do be quiet, Faith, and not keep your head flirting about so!”—­for she’d started up to speak.  Then she composed herself once more.

“What was I saying?  Oh, about that.  Yes, Georgie, the queerest thing!  You see, this evening, when Dan was out, I was sitting talkin’ with Mr. Gabriel, and he was wondering how I came to be dropped down here, so I told him all about it.  And he was so interested that I went and showed him the things I had on when Dan found me,—­you know they’ve been kept real nice.  And he took them, and looked them over, close, admiring them, and—­and—­admiring me,—­and finally he started, and then held the frock to the light, and then lifted a little plait, and in the under side of the belt-lining there was a name very finely wrought,—­Virginie des Violets; and he looked at all the others, and in some hidden corner of every one was the initials of the same name,—­V. des V.

“‘That should be your name, Mrs. Devereux,’ says he.

“‘Oh, no!’ says I.  ‘My name’s Faith.’

“Well, and on that he asked, was there no more; and so I took off the little chain that I’ve always worn and showed him that, and he asked if there was a face in it, in what we thought was a coin, you know; and I said, oh, it didn’t open; and he turned it over and over, and finally something snapped, and there was a face,—­here, you shall see it, Georgie.”

And Faith drew it from her bosom, and opened and held it before me; for I’d sat with my needle poised, and forgetting to strike.  And there was the face indeed, a sad, serious face, dark and sweet, yet the image of Faith, and with the same mouth,—­that so lovely in a woman becomes weak in a man,—­and on the other side there were a few threads of hair, with the same darkness and fineness as Faith’s hair, and under them a little picture chased in the gold and enamelled, which, from what I’ve read since, I suppose must have been the crest of the Des Violets.

“And what did Mr. Gabriel say then?” I asked, giving it back to Faith, who put her head into the old position again.

“Oh, he acted real queer.  ‘The very man!’ he cried out.  ’The man himself!  His portrait,—­I have seen it a hundred times!’ And then he told me that about a dozen years ago or more, a ship sailed from—­from—­I forget the place exactly, somewhere up there where he came from,—­Mr. Gabriel, I mean,—­and among the passengers was this man and his wife, and his little daughter, whose name was Virginie des Violets, and the ship was never heard from again.  But he says that without a doubt I’m the little daughter and my name is Virginie, though I suppose every one’ll call me Faith.  Oh, and that isn’t the queerest.  The queerest is, this gentleman,” and Faith lifted her head, “was very rich.  I can’t tell you how much he owned.  Lands that you can walk on a whole day and not come to the end, and ships, and gold.  And the whole of it’s lying idle and waiting for an heir,—­and I, Georgie, am the heir.”