“I’d better show you the way, miss.  She’s in her own room.”

The housekeeper led the way and Beth followed.  When she rapped upon the door, a sweet, quiet voice said: 

“Come in.”

The girl entered, and gave an involuntary cry of surprise.  Standing before her was the young girl she had seen riding with Mr. Hopkins—­the girl she had declared to be the missing daughter of Mrs. Rogers.

For a moment Beth stood staring, while the new maid regarded her with composure and a slight smile upon her beautiful face.  She was dressed in the regulation costume of the maids at Elmhurst, a plain black gown with white apron and cap.

“I—­I beg your pardon,” said Beth, with a slight gasp; for the likeness to Mrs. Rogers was something amazing.  “Aren’t you Lucy Rogers?”

The maid raised her eyebrows with a gesture of genuine surprise.  Then she gave a little laugh, and replied: 

“No, Miss Beth.  I’m Elizabeth Parsons.”

“But it can’t be,” protested the girl.  “How do you know my name, and why haven’t I seen you here before?”

“I’m not a very important person at Elmhurst,” replied Eliza, in a pleasant, even tone.  “I obtained the situation only a few days ago.  I attend to the household mending, you know, and care for the linen.  But one can’t be here without knowing the names of the young ladies, so I recognize you as Miss Beth, one of Mr. Forbes’s cousins.”

“You speak like an educated person,” said Beth, wonderingly.  “Where is your home?”

For the first time the maid seemed a little confused, and her gaze wandered from the face of her visitor.

“Will you excuse my answering that question?” she asked.

“It is very simple and natural,” persisted Beth.  “Why cannot you answer it?”

“Excuse me, please.  I—­I am not well today.  I have a headache.”

She sat down in a rocking chair, and clasping her hands in her lap, rocked slowly back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” said Beth.  “I hoped you would be able to assist me on the lawn.  There are so many people that we can’t give them proper attention.”

Eliza Parsons shook her head.

“I am not able,” she declared.  “I abhor crowds.  They—­they excite me, in some way, and I—­I can’t bear them.  You must excuse me.”

Beth looked at the strange girl without taking the hint to retire.  Somehow, she could not rid herself of the impression that whether or not she was mistaken in supposing Eliza to be the missing Lucy, she had stumbled upon a sphinx whose riddle was well worth solving.

But Eliza bore the scrutiny with quiet unconcern.  She even seemed mildly amused at the attention she attracted.  Beth was a beautiful girl—­the handsomest of the three cousins, by far; yet Eliza surpassed her in natural charm, and seemed well aware of the fact.  Her manner was neither independent nor assertive, but rather one of well-bred composure and calm reliance.  Beth felt that she was intruding and knew that she ought to go; yet some fascination held her to the spot.  Her eyes wandered to the maid’s hands.  However her features and form might repress any evidence of nervousness, these hands told a different story.  The thin fingers clasped and unclasped in little spasmodic jerks and belied the quiet smile upon the face above them.