“If I were your brother, I should stay,” he said, gravely. “If you were my brother, you would do as you like without asking me,” she said, with an attempt at a smile. “Do as you like.” At that moment there was a tap at the door, and the older of the two nurses peeped in. “Might I trouble you one moment, Mr. Paull?” He went outside. The nurse handed him a small sealed packet. “A locket and chain from the patient’s neck,” she said. “Mrs. Mervyn would not take it.” “I will give it to Miss Pym,” he said, wondering how much or how little Lilia knew of her father’s personal affairs. “Nurse came to bring me this,” he said, returning to Lilia. “She says it contains a locket and chain she found around—his—neck.” “A locket—round—his—neck? It must be a mistake,” said Lilia, confidently. “He never wore any jewellery—except, of course, his watchchain. He did not approve of men decking themselves out with ornaments.” “Well, you can soon find out if it is a mistake,” he said, handing her the packet. She hesitated, took the package, then laid it down on the table as if the touch of it had scorched her. “I cannot!” she said, with a sob. “It seems—such prying, such desecration! _You_ open it.” There was something so childish in her change of voice as she pushed the packet towards him, that instinctively Hugh felt comforted. All the preceding palaver might have been partly the masquerading of a child, suddenly called upon to act the woman. For a moment he hesitated; then he broke the seal, and handing her the locket which had been in his custody at the hospital, said: “I have seen this before, I think.” “You?” she asked, recoiling. “How? When?” “In the hospital—your father wore it then. If I am not mistaken, the locket contains a portrait.” “I have never been photographed,” she said, evidently believing that no portrait save of herself could be so honoured. “It is not—a portrait—of Roderick?” “Look and see for yourself,” suggested Hugh. Her fingers trembled as she opened the locket, then she stared in amazement at the miniature. “I have never seen that person in my life!” she cried. “Have you? Did he tell you anything about it? Oh, it is impossible, impossible!” She was roused, almost excited. She tossed the locket away from her, then clutched at it again and devoured the portrait with her eyes. “Surely the face must recall some one to your mind—there must be some—family—likeness?” he suggested, gravely. “I never saw any one in the least like that!” she said, with withering contempt. “It is a horrid face!” Could she speak thus if the slightest suspicion that the portrait was that of her unhappy mother had crossed her mind? Hugh thought not. “You once—had—a mother,” he said, not without emotion that he, a stranger, should be called upon to remind this fatherless young creature of the fact. “I know it,” she said, coldly. “Please do not allude to that—again.”