The little box was where Polly had put it, high on a shelf; it was a small, flat affair, neatly made of two or three different kinds of wood. It lay under Polly’s Bible, and, as Agnes stood on tiptoe to reach it, she knocked down both box and Bible, and, in trying to save the latter, the box fell on the floor. It was strong, and was not injured; but in the fall a spring struck the floor, and a sliding panel flew out; then two or three bits of paper fell from their hiding-place. Agnes picked them up one by one,--two or three letters and a carefully made pencil-sketch of a girl’s head. Beneath it was written “Alicia.” Agnes felt the blood surging to her face as she stood with trembling fingers holding the picture. It was then as Polly had surmised. “For I know it is not his sister,” she whispered; “he told me her name, and it is Elizabeth. I could not forget that.” She noted the haughty, high-bred air about the pose of the head, the curve of the perfect lips, the pile of hair carefully arranged, the filmy lace kerchief. She slipped the papers and portrait back into their place and hurried downstairs, but she was very pale as she handed the box to Parker. “I dropped it,” she said truthfully, “but I hope nothing is hurt.” “I am sure everything is quite safe,” he assured her. “It is not a very large, strong box, but it holds most of my dearest possessions.” He opened the lid and drew forth three miniatures. “See,” he said,“these are my treasures. This is my mother;”--he showed it to Mrs. Kennedy; “this my sister Elizabeth, whom we call Betty,” and he handed Agnes the second case, “this my father,” and into Polly’s hands he gave the third. “There are, too, some of my father’s last letters, and one or two other little things which I prize.” “You look like your father,” Polly said, scrutinizing the miniature she held. “He died when I was ten years old, so I remember him perfectly. My mother married a second time,” he informed Mrs. Kennedy. “Therefore, unless your stepfather is a very unusual man, you must miss your own father very much.” “I did, and because of this second marriage I left home after my sister was married.” Agnes was gazing at Betty’s pictured face; it was bright, piquant, very fair, very young. She handed it back without a word, and her heart was troubled, for her thoughts were with that hidden portrait.