After she was gone, Mrs. Campbell fell asleep, and for the first time in many a long year dreamed of her old home in England.  She did not remember it herself, but she had so often heard it described by the aunt who adopted her, that now it came up vividly before her mind, with its dark stone walls, its spacious grounds, terraced gardens, running vines and creeping roses.  Something about it, too, reminded her of what Ella had once said of her mother’s early home, and when she awoke, she wondered that she had never questioned the child more concerning her parents.  She was just lying back again upon her pillow, when there was a gentle rap at the door, and Mary Howard’s soft voice asked permission to come in.

“Yes, do,” said Mrs. Campbell.  “Perhaps you can charm away my headache, which is dreadful.”

“I’ll try,” answered Mary.  “Shall I read to you?”

“If you please; but first give me my salts.  You’ll find them there in that drawer.”

Mary obeyed, but started as she opened the drawer, for there, on the top, lay a small, old-fashioned miniature, of a fair young child, so nearly resembling Franky, that the tears instantly came to her eyes.

“What is it?” asked Mrs Campbell, and Mary replied, “This picture,—­so much like brother Franky.  May I look at it?”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Campbell.  “That is a picture of my sister.”

For a long time Mary gazed at the sweet childish face, which, with its clustering curls, and soft brown eyes, looked to her so much like Franky.  At last, turning to Mrs. Campbell, she said, “You must have loved her very much.  What was her name?”

“Ella Temple,” was Mrs. Campbell’s reply, and Mary instantly exclaimed, “Why, that was my mother’s name!”

“Your mother, Mary!—­your mother!” said Mrs. Campbell, starting up from her pillow.  “But no; it cannot be.  Your mother is lying in Chicopee, and Ella, my sister, died in England.”

Every particle of color had left Mary’s face, and her eyes, now black as midnight, stared wildly at Mrs. Campbell.  The sad story, which her mother had once told her, came back to her mind, bringing with it the thought, which had so agitated her companion.

“Yes,” she continued, without noticing what Mrs. Campbell had said, “my mother was Ella Temple, and she had two sisters, one her own, and the other, a half sister,—­Sarah Fletcher and Jane Temple,—­both of whom came to America many years ago.”

“Tell me more,—­tell me all you know!” whispered Mrs. Campbell, grasping Mary’s hand; “and how it came bout that I thought she was dead,—­my sister.”

Upon this point Mary could throw no light, but of all that she had heard from her mother she told, and then Mrs Campbell, pointing to her writing desk, said, “Bring it to me.  I must read that letter again.”