“Surely your daughter can sleep with you, and does not require an extra room,” Mrs. Barrett said; and Mrs. Rogers replied: “I prefer that she should have a room to herself. As I told you before, she is not my child, and I am more particular on that account to bring her up different. She has as good blood in her veins as many a would-be fine lady.” So Mrs. Barrett gave up the point and prepared Edith’s old room for little Gertie, to whom Mary was as devoted as if she had been a scion of nobility. If Mrs. Barrett had cared for children she would have been interested in Gertie at once, but as it was she did not notice her particularly till she had been for several days an inmate of the house. Then one afternoon, as she sat at her sewing, her ear caught the sound of a sweet voice singing a familiar air. Something in the tone of the voice arrested her attention, and carried her back to the time when Edith was young and sang that very song. Moving her chair so that she could command a better view of the back porch where Gertie sat, she noticed for the first time how very pretty she was. She was rather small for her age, and had a round, sweet face, with a complexion like wax, and the clearest, sunniest blue eyes, which seemed fairly to dance when she was pleased, and again were so dreamy and indescribably sad in their expression as if the remembrance of some great sorrow had left its shadows in them. The long, thick eyelashes, and heavy arched brows gave them the appearance of being much darker than they really were, and when the lids were raised one was surprised to find them just the color of the summer sky on a clear, balmy day. But Gertie’s hair was her greatest point of beauty, her bright, wavy hair which in her babyhood must have been almost red, but which now was auburn, with a shading of gold in it. Taken altogether, she was a very beautiful child, and one whom strangers always noticed and commented upon, and even Mrs. Barrett, as she sat watching her, felt a sudden throb of interest in her, and thought of another little one, who might have called her grandma and made her old age happy. “Gertie,” she said, after a moment, “come here, please. I want to talk with you.” Startled by the voice and a little surprised to be addressed by the cold, quiet woman who had never before evinced the slightest interest in her or scarcely spoken to her, Gertie arose, and coming timidly to Mrs. Barrett’s side, stood waiting for her to speak. “Gertie,” Mrs. Barrett began, “have you always lived in London?” “Yes, ma’am, but not with auntie,” was Gertie’s reply: and Mrs. Barrett continued: “With whom then did you live?” “With my mamma, who died when I was two years old,” was the prompt answer; and Mrs. Barrett went on: “Had you no father then?”