“Well, maybe she is. I don’t know for certain,” Mrs. Watkins returned, still doubtfully. “I know the picture. Miss Fogg used to let me into her room sometimes before she got so cranky an’ suspicious. An’ I know she _says_ it’s her niece, but if it is, believe me, she certainly don’t care one thing about her old aunt. Miss Fogg’s been in this house for all the eight years I’ve been here--for all she thinks we’re so common, she keeps a stayin’ with us--an’ I’ve never seen any niece in all that time; an’ she don’t ever seem to have no letters, or word of any kind from the niece--not even at Christmas--that I know of. My, ain’t it hot!” she interpolated, putting up one languid hand and plucking a wisp of hair back from her forehead. “I just b’lieve that photograph’s a picture of some girl she used to sew for, and she likes to b’lieve it’s kin to her, poor soul.” “Oh! it must be her niece,” Julie cried, distressfully. “It would be awful if it weren’t. Why, she’s all poor old Miss Fogg has in the world--the last straw of life that she clings to. It would be awful if she didn’t have her!” “Well, I hope in my heart she has got a niece,” Mrs. Watkins returned. “She ought to be here,” Julie persisted. “She ought to come to Miss Fogg, in case I have to leave.” “Why, you thinkin’ of goin’ away?” “No--Oh, no. Not really,” Julie evaded hastily, with that little breathless catch in her voice which was characteristic of her under any stress. “No. But I might.” “Well, it would be a sad day for everybody in this house if you was to leave,” Mrs. Watkins said heartily. “You’ve got something about you most people ain’t got. You’re so--so good.” Julie looked up, her eyes wide and horrified. “Oh--Oh, no! I’m not. Don’t say that,” she faltered blindly. It was after her talk with Mrs. Watkins that Julie made a fresh attempt to get Miss Fogg to write to her niece. The old woman would never give her either the niece’s name or her address. That and the locked drawer in her bureau were the only things over which she evinced the secretive suspicion toward Julie that she showed toward every one else. When Julie tried again that afternoon to persuade her, she firmed her lips obstinately. “I’ll write if I want, an’ I’ll not if I don’t,” she announced. “Look,” Julie coaxed. “See, I’ve brought you in ink and paper and everything. See what nice paper this is.” Miss Fogg took the paper and inspected it critically. “That’s right nice,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t write to her on any but the best paper; she thinks a heap of having things stylish.” Julie drew up a table and spread the writing materials invitingly upon it. “There now, just write her a few lines,” she begged.