“Madam said you was to come right up to her room,” said the butler pointedly.  But Elizabeth stood rooted to the ground, studying the picture.  The butler had to repeat the message.  She smiled and turned to follow him, and as she did so saw on a side wall the portraits of two boys.

“Who are they?” she pointed swiftly.  They were much like her own two brothers.

“Them are Mr. John and Mr. James, Madam’s two sons.  They’s both of them dead now,” said the butler.  “At least, Mr. James is, I’m sure.  He died two years ago.  But you better come right up.  Madam will be wondering.”

She followed the old man up the velvet-shod stairs that gave back no sound from footfall, and pondered as she went.  Then that was her father, that boy with the beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back from his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don’t-care look.  And here was where he had lived.  Here amid all this luxury.

Like a flash came the quick contrast of the home in which he had died, and a great wave of reverence for her father rolled over her.  From such a home and such surroundings it would not have been strange if he had grown weary of the rough life out West, and deserted his wife, who was beneath him in station.  But he had not.  He had stayed by her all the years.  True, he had not been of much use to her, and much of the time had been but a burden and anxiety; but he had stayed and loved her—­when he was sober.  She forgave him his many trying ways, his faultfindings with her mother’s many little blunders—­no wonder, when he came from this place.

The butler tapped on a door at the head of the stairs, and a maid swung it open.

“Why, you’re not the girl Mrs. Sands sent the other day,” said a querulous voice from a mass of lace-ruffled pillows on the great bed.

“I am Elizabeth,” said the girl, as if that were full explanation.

“Elizabeth?  Elizabeth who?  I don’t see why she sent another girl.  Are you sure you will understand the directions?  They’re very particular, for I want my frock ready for to-night without fail.”  The woman sat up, leaning on one elbow.  Her lace nightgown and pale-blue silk dressing-sack fell away from a round white arm that did not look as if it belonged to a very old lady.  Her gray hair was becomingly arranged, and she was extremely pretty, with small features.  Elizabeth looked and marvelled.  Like a flash came the vision of the other grandmother at the wash-tub.  The contrast was startling.

“I am Elizabeth Bailey,” said the girl quietly, as if she would break a piece of hard news gently.  “My father was your son John.”

“The idea!” said the new grandmother, and promptly fell back upon her pillows with her hand upon her heart.  “John, John, my little John.  No one has mentioned his name to me for years and years.  He never writes to me.”  She put up a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and sobbed.

“Father died five years ago,” said Elizabeth.