It showed, however, no trace of emotion when half an hour later she encountered her housekeeper in the upper hall.

"Caroline, who is the little girl who came to see you this afternoon?"

she asked.

"I suppose it was Emma Bond, Miss Frances; her mother has been hemst.i.tching some pillow cases."

"Do you know anything about the child who was with her? I think she said she lived in the same house."

"I don't know who she is, Miss Frances. She is a pretty child, but I don't remember her name if I ever heard it."

"I saw her and was rather attracted to her. She seemed not quite the sort of child you would expect to find in a tenement house. There was a very respectable looking maid with her."

Caroline smiled. She was a bright-faced Swiss woman who had lived with her mistress for nearly thirty years, knew her thoroughly, and loved her devotedly. She was not deceived by the air of indifference with which the lady moved away; she understood that for some reason her mistress wished to find out all she knew about this little girl.

"It isn't what you'd call a tenement house," she said; "the man who owns it has made it into flats. He lives there himself, and has his shop, and Mrs. Bond keeps house for him. It is a real nice place."

"I fail to see the difference," was the reply; "but, Caroline, why did she think I was Mrs. Marvin? She called me so."

"I don't know, Miss Frances, unless it was Emma Bond's mistake. Her mother did some sewing for Mrs. Marvin when she was staying here."

"Well, Caroline, if you see Mrs. Bond you need not say anything about the mistake. You understand? I have a reason for wishing them to think I am Mrs. Marvin, as in fact I am."

"I should like to know what it means," Caroline said to herself as her mistress walked away.

"This is all very melodramatic and absurd, but I must have time to consider," the lady was thinking as she entered her own room, and closed the door behind her. "I must contrive to see her again."

Going to a cabinet, she took from an inner compartment a box, then she had a long search for the key, and after it was found she sat with the box on her lap gazing absently before her.

It was thirteen--almost fourteen years since she had lifted that lid.

She had thought never to open it, unless--well, unless the impossible happened, and now a pair of brown eyes had aroused an irresistible longing to look once more on something that lay hidden there. In vain she told herself it was foolish, idle, worse than childish. She recalled the burning anger and resentment with which she had put the box away so long ago. Yes, and had she not just cause? But the touch of those young lips was still fresh upon her own, and whether she would or not, was carrying her back, back to the dear old days.

There was really very little in it, she reflected, as she began to look over the contents; but a few trifles can mean so much sometimes. There was a light brown curl, some photographs that showed how a certain chubby, dimpled baby had developed into a manly boy of sixteen, a bundle of letters in a schoolboy hand, and down at the very bottom, the thing she was so anxious to see again, a lovely miniature of a boy of seven.

She gazed at it long and earnestly. Such a dear little face! and this afternoon she had seen the same smile, had looked into the same eyes!

Jack's daughter! was it possible?

He had called her Frances, too; he had not quite forgotten. It was, of course, a family name, and with all his independence Jack had a great deal of family pride. And the air with which she had said, "Perhaps you have read his stories,"--she could have laughed, but for the pain of the thought that she who had once been first had now no part in his life.

Others had the right to be proud of him, but not she.

She closed the lid and put the box away: the past could not be recalled, she must try to forget, as she had tried all these years; but even as she made the resolve her heart was saying, "I must see that child again,--I must, must!"

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

AT CHRISTMAS TIME.

"Hurrah!" said the Spectacle Man, "Mark's coming home for Christmas." He waved a letter above his head as he spoke, and looked as if he might be going to dance a jig.

"Is he? I am very glad," replied Frances, who had run down to speak to the postman, and now paused in the open door of the shop.

"I was really afraid we couldn't manage it, travelling costs so much, but one of his friends has given him a pa.s.s. Mark is a great fellow for such things!" Mr. Clark's face beamed with pleasure.

Frances wished she might bring her books and study her lessons in the shop, it was so sunny and cheerful, with Peterkin stretched out in lazy comfort before the fire, his master busy at his work-table over some lenses.

"Mother, do you know it will be Christmas in two weeks?" she asked, as she entered the sitting room; "and Mark is coming home," she added. "Do you think he will be nice?"

"We may as well give him the benefit of any doubt," said Mrs. Morrison, answering the last question. "What do you want to do for Christmas, Wink?"

"What can we do without father?" the little girl exclaimed, thinking of the merrymakings of other years in which he had always been prime mover.

"We are so glad to know how well and strong he is getting that we can manage to have some sort of a happy time without him, I think," her mother replied. "Suppose you ask Miss Sherwin if she and Miss Moore will be here through the holidays."

The air was full of Christmas plans, the streets were full of Christmas shoppers, and the dwellers in the house of the Spectacle Man could not escape the contagion. The girls on the third floor were not going home, and were very willing to unite with their neighbors in a little festivity.

Miss Moore proposed a tree, which, in kindergarten fashion, they should all unite in tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. Emma and Frances immediately offered to string pop-corn and cranberries, and went to work with great ardor, having at the same time to bribe the General to attend to his own affairs, with wonderful stories of Santa Claus, and the toys he had in store for good boys.

Emma was as happy as a lark. In past years the Sunday-school tree had been all she had to look forward to, and the thought of having one in the house was almost too much. Gladys also condescended to help with the pop-corn, although she was rather scornful of such home-made decorations.

"I suppose I may invite Gladys to our tree, mayn't I?" Frances asked one evening of the busy circle gathered around the table in Miss Sherwin's studio.

"I should think so," her mother replied.

"I know a girl I'd like to ask. She is in my cla.s.s, and she lives in Texas, and I do not believe she has a single friend in the city." As she spoke, Miss Moore carefully smoothed out the photograph she was mounting.

"You do it beautifully," said Mrs. Morrison, looking over her shoulder.

"It is the 'Holy Night' by Plockhorst, as you see; we are going to give one to each of our infants, and I offered to mount them. I like to paste; it is my one talent."

"For a Christmas picture, this is my favorite," and Miss Sherwin took from a portfolio a photograph of the Magi on the way to Bethlehem.

Emma and Frances left their cranberries to look at it.

"How wonderfully simple and dignified it is! The wide sweep of the desert, and the stately figures of the Wise Men, as they follow the star," remarked Mrs. Morrison.

"But no one has answered Miss Moore. Wouldn't it be nice to invite her girl?" said Frances, going back to her work again.

"Why, of course, and perhaps we'll find some one else who is not likely to have a happy day," her mother answered.

"There's Mrs. Gray," said Frances meditatively; "I wonder if she likes Christmas trees?"

So it began, and before they knew it the original plan was quite outgrown.

When Mark arrived he proved to be a tall, bright-faced boy of sixteen, overflowing with good spirits, who contrived to get acquainted with all the inmates of the house before twenty-four hours had pa.s.sed.

He took a lively interest in the tree, and suggested having it in his uncle's study. Then on Christmas Eve the cases could be moved out of the way in the shop, and both rooms be given up to the frolic.