There were several pretty drawings wrapped in tissue paper, a sketch, in water-colors, of a charming little cottage, half hidden by vines and climbing roses, and in one corner of this there were three tiny initials. Sumner Dalton nearly bounded from his chair as he read them, repeating them aloud as he did so. The color forsook his face, his lips twitched nervously, and a startled, anxious expression sprang to his eyes. He hastily thrust the drawing one side and went on now more eagerly with his quest. The only remaining things in the package were a large envelope, containing a few photographs, and a very heavy piece of parchment—more like cardboard—about five inches wide and eight long, and upon which there was some writing in cipher that he could not read. It seemed to be there more as a foundation to build the package than anything else, and Mr. Dalton, attaching no importance whatever to it, pushed it one side and turned his attention to the pictures. One by one he took them up and looked at them, but there was no familiar face, and they were mostly pictures of young boys and girls, evidently schoolmates of Earle’s. At last he came to what seemed to be one carefully inclosed in a separate envelope. He opened this, and found that its contents were wrapped about with tissue paper. “Some pretty girl who has captivated his boyish fancy. Who knows but it may be a picture of Editha herself?” he muttered, with a scornful smile. He removed the wrapper, and two pictures dropped upon the table, and also a lock of auburn hair, tied with a blue ribbon. He took up one of the pictures with a yawn. Surely this was not worth the loss of so much sleep and the treachery he had employed to gain his object. But—what is this? Something that makes the blood rush back upon his heart with suffocating force, his eyes to start with horror, and a clammy moisture to ooze from every pore. It is the face of a beautiful woman of perhaps thirty-five years. Dark, abundant hair crowned the small, shapely head set most gracefully upon a pair of sloping shoulders. Grave, sad eyes looked up at the horror-stricken face with an expression which strangely moved the strong man. A straight, delicate nose and a mouth sweet and gentle in expression, but deeply lined with suffering, completed the picture. Underneath, and traced in the same delicate chirography which the letters bore, were the words: “Mother, to her dear boy.” With trembling hands Sumner Dalton laid it down and took up the other picture, and gazed as if fascinated upon it. It was the same face, only evidently taken fifteen or twenty years previous. It was a magic face, one of bewildering, entrancing beauty, and full of mirth and careless glee.