'It's full of books,' Henrietta said; 'I won't unpack them. I thought
my aunts would let me keep them somewhere. They are my father's
books.'

'There's an old bookcase belonging to Mr. Reginald in the box-room,'
Susan said; 'I'll speak to Miss Caroline about it.'

'Did you know my father?' Henrietta asked at once.

'Yes, Miss Henrietta,' Susan said.

'Do you think I'm like him?'

'It's a striking likeness, Miss Henrietta,' and warming a little,
Susan added, 'I was just saying so to Cook.'

'Did Cook know him, too?'

'Oh, yes, Miss Henrietta. Cook and I have been with the family for
years. If you'll tell me which dress you wish to wear--'

'There's only one in the wardrobe,' Henrietta said serenely, for
suddenly her shabbiness and poverty mattered no longer. She was
stamped with the impress of Reginald Mallett, whom she had despised
yet of whom she was proud, and that impress was like a guarantee, a
sort of passport. She had a great lightness of heart; she was glad she
had left Mrs. Banks, glad she was in her father's home, and learning
from Susan that the ladies rested in their own rooms after luncheon,
she decided to go out and look on the scenes of her father's youth.