It was at luncheon, the day of the joint debate at Fairview, that the young man first met Eliza, who sat opposite him.  The only other person present was old Donald, the coachman, who was rather deaf and never paid any attention to the chatter around him.

As he took his seat Tom gave a half-frightened glance into Eliza’s face and then turned red as she smiled coquettishly and said: 

“Dear me!  It’s the young man who called me his dear Lucy.”

“You—­you’re very like her,” stammered Tom, unable to take his eyes from her face.  “Even now I—­I can’t believe I’m mistaken.”

She laughed merrily in a sweet, musical voice, and then suddenly stopped with her hand on her heart and cast at him a startled look that was in such sharp contrast to her former demeanor that he rose from his chair.

“Sit down, please,” she said, slowly.  And then she studied his face with sober earnestness—­with almost wistful longing.  But she shook her head presently, and sighed; and a moment later had regained her lightness of manner.

“It’s a relief to have a quiet house for a day, isn’t it?” she asked, eating her soup calmly.  “I’ll be glad when the election’s over.”

“Have you been here long?” he asked, although Beth had told him of Eliza’s coming to Elmhurst.

“Only a short time.  And you?”

“Two days,” said he.  “But where did you live before you came here?”

She shook her head.

“I wish you would answer me,” he begged.  “I have a reason for asking.”

“What reason?” she demanded, suddenly serious again.

“Two people have never lived that were so near alike as you and Lucy
Rogers.”

“Indeed?”

“Will you show me your left arm?”

“No.”

She was again studying his face.

“If you are Lucy Rogers you have a scar there—­a scar where you burned yourself years ago.”

She seemed frightened for a moment.  Then she said: 

“I have no scar on my left arm.”

“Will you prove it?”

“No.  You are annoying me.  What did you say your name is?”

“Tom Gates.”

She was thoughtful for a moment and then shook her head.

“I have never heard of you,” she declared, positively, and resumed her eating.

Tom was nonplussed.  One moment he believed she was Lucy, and the next told himself that it was impossible.  This girl possessed mannerisms that Lucy had never exhibited in all the years he had known her.  She was bold and unabashed where Lucy was shy and unassuming.  This girl’s eyes laughed, while Lucy’s were grave and serious; yet they were the same eyes.

“Let me tell you about my lost Lucy,” he said, with a glance at the unconscious Donald.

“Go ahead, if it will relieve you,” she answered, demurely.