“Vous just come from Mademoiselle Rivers,” said he.  “She be von fine girl.  What relation be she to Monsieur Graham?”

“None whatever.  Why do you ask?”

“Because he pay her musique lessons and——­”

Here Du Pont suddenly remembered his promise, so he kept back Mr. Graham’s assertion that he was a near relative, adding in its place, that “he thought probable he related; but you no tell,” said he, “for Monsieur bid me keep secret and I forgot.”

Here, having reached a cross-road, they parted, and again Durward wrote down bitter things against his father, for what could be his object in wishing it kept a secret that he was paying for ’Lena’s lessons, or why did he pay for them at all—­and did ’Lena know it?  He thought not, and for a time longer was she blameless in his eyes.

On reaching home he found both the parlor and drawing-room deserted, and upon inquiry learned that his mother was in her own room.  Something, he could hardly tell what, prompted him to knock for admission, which being granted, he entered, finding her unusually pale, with the trace of tears still upon her cheek.  This of itself was so common an occurrence, that he would hardly have observed it had not there been about her a look of unfeigned distress which he had seldom seen before.

“What’s the matter, mother?” said he, advancing toward her; “What has happened to trouble you?”

Without any reply, Mrs. Graham placed in his hand a richly-cased daguerreotype, and laying her head upon the table, sobbed aloud.  A moment Durward stood transfixed to the spot, for on opening the case, the fair, beautiful face of ’Lena Rivers looked smilingly out upon him!

“Where did you get this, mother?—­how came you by it?” he asked, and she answered, that in looking through her husband’s private drawer, the key of which she had accidentally found in his vest pocket, she had come upon it, together with a curl of soft chestnut-brown hair which she threw across Durward’s finger, and from which he recoiled as from a viper’s touch.

For several minutes not a word was spoken by either, and then Mrs. Graham, looking him in the face, said, “You recognize that countenance, of course?”

“I do,” he replied, in a voice husky with emotion, for Durward was terribly moved.

Twice had ’Lena asserted that never in her life had her daguerreotype been taken, and yet he held it in his hands; there was no mistaking it—­the same broad, open brow—­the same full, red lips—­the same smile—­and more than all, the same clustering ringlets, though arranged a little differently from what she usually wore them, the hair on the picture being combed smoothly over the forehead, while ’Lena’s was generally brushed up after the style of the prevailing fashion.  Had Durward examined minutely, he might have found other points of difference, but he did not think of that.  A look had convinced him that ’twas