directly opposite the settee, a door swung slowly open, the hand upon
the knob invisible. A picture was presented to the stranger's eyes as if
somebody had meant to show it to him. He could but look. Anybody, seeing
the picture, would have looked and found it hard to turn his eyes away.

For it was the heart of the house, right here, so close at hand that
even a stranger could catch a glimpse of it by chance. A great,
wide-throated fireplace held a splendid fire of burning logs, the light
from it illumining the whole room, otherwise dark in the October
twilight. Before it on the hearth-rug were silhouetted, in distinct
lines against its rich background, two figures. One was that of a woman
in warm middle life, sitting in a big chair, her face full of both
brightness and peace; at her feet knelt a young girl, her arm upon her
mother's knees, her face uplifted. The two faces were smiling into each
other.

Somebody--it looked to be a tall young man against the fire-glow--came
and abruptly closed the door from within, and the picture was gone. The
fitful music ceased again; the house was quiet.

Thereupon Richard Kendrick grew impatient. Fully ten minutes must have
elapsed since his youthful conductor had disappeared. He looked about
him for some means of summoning attention, but discovered none.

Suddenly a latchkey rattled uselessly in the lock of the front door;
then came lusty knocks upon its stout panels, accompanied by the
whirring of a bell somewhere in the distance.

A maidservant came hurriedly into the hall through a door near Richard,
and at the same moment a boy of ten or eleven came tearing down the