“I can just remember our home in New York,” said Mary Louise, also musingly, “for I was very young at the time.  It was a beautiful big place, with a good many servants.  I wonder what drove us from it?”

“Do you remember your father?” asked Mrs. Conant.

“Not at all.”

“Peter once told me he was a foreigner who fell desperately in love with your mother and married her without your grandfather’s full approval.  I believe Mr. Burrows was a man of much political influence, for he served in the Department of State and had a good many admirers.  Peter never knew why your grandfather opposed the marriage, for afterward he took Mr. and Mrs. Burrows to live with him and they were all good friends up to the day of your father’s death.  But this is ancient history and speculation on subjects we do not understand is sure to prove unsatisfactory.  I wouldn’t worry over your grandfather’s troubles, my dear.  Try to forget them.”

“Grandfather’s real name isn’t Weatherby,” said the girl.  “It is Hathaway.”

Mrs. Conant gave a start of surprise.

“How did you learn that?” she asked sharply.

The girl took out her watch, pried open the back ease with a penknife and allowed Mrs. Conant to read the inscription.  Also she curiously watched the woman’s face and noted its quick flush and its uneasy expression.  Did the lawyer’s wife know more than she had admitted?

If so, why was everyone trying to keep her in the dark?

“I cannot see that this helps to solve the mystery,” said Mrs. Conant in a brisk tone as she recovered from her surprise.  “Let us put the whole thing out of mind, Mary Louise, or it will keep us all stirred up and in a muddle of doubt.  I shall tell Peter you are to live with us, and your old little room at the back of the hall is all ready for you.  Irene has the next room, so you will be quite neighborly.  Go and put away your things and then we’ll whistle for Irene.”

Mary Louise went to the well-remembered room and slowly and thoughtfully unpacked her suit case.  She was glad to find a home again among congenial people, but she was growing more and more perplexed over the astonishing case of Gran’pa Jim.  It worried her to find that an occasional doubt would cross her mind in spite of her intense loyalty to her dearly loved grandparent.  She would promptly drive out the doubt, but it would insist on intruding again.

“Something is wrong somewhere,” she sighed.  “There must be some snarl that even Gran’pa Jim can’t untangle; and, if he can’t, I’m sure no one else can.  I wish I could find him and that he would tell me all about it.  I suppose he thinks I’m too young to confide in, but I’m almost sixteen now and surely that’s old enough to understand things.  There were girls at school twenty years old that I’m sure couldn’t reason as well as I can.”

After a while she went down stairs and joined Irene in the garden, where the chair-girl was trimming rose bushes with a pair of stout scissors.  She greeted Mary Louise with her bright smile, saying: