“I beg your pardon, sir; but indeed I was so taken by surprise!” said Palma, apologetically, and with a pretty blush. “Not at all!” exclaimed the stranger, rather irrelevantly. “Say no more about it; but tell me something of my son and my daughter. You said nothing about my son, yet I have been told that they are both equally and intimately well known to you and to your excellent husband. What are these young people like, madam, if you please?” “Mike and Judy? They are both lovely! Just lovely!” warmly responded Palma. “That is exceedingly complimentary, and would be highly satisfactory, only it is not quite exact enough. A rose is lovely, so is a pearl, so is a fawn, so is a baby.” “Oh, yes!” exclaimed the young mother. “So many things are lovely, you see, that to say they are lovely gives me no clear idea of them. Be more precise, dear lady.” “Oh, then, they are so good, so sweet—but I think I had better show you their photographs,” said Palma, with sudden inspiration. “The very thing!” exclaimed the visitor. Palma sprang up and ran like an eager child to the other end of the drawing-room and to an _etagere_ that stood in the corner, and took from it a large-paged but thin photograph album, with which she returned to her visitor. “This book,” she said, “contains only the pictures of our dearest friends. There are not more than thirty-three pictures in the collection; but then there are in some cases several of each person. I will show you Mike’s and Judy’s.” “No!” exclaimed the visitor. “Pray let me have the book and see if I can find them for myself. I have never seen them. You are naturally amazed to hear me say that, but you shall know the reason of the fact in good time,” said The O’Melaghlin, as he received the book from Palma, who, having placed it in his hands, resumed her seat, watched him as he turned over the leaves, and speculated with much interest whether he would be able to identify the pictures of his son and daughter, whom he had never seen. Presently his face lighted up. “Here they are!” he exclaimed, pointing to the open pages that presented full-length cabinet photographs of Mike and Judy—the former being on the left-hand page and the latter on the right. “Yes, you are right,” replied Palma in surprise; “but how could you tell?” “Because this,” he replied, laying his finger on Judy’s picture, “is a perfect likeness of my dear lost Moira; and this,” he added, indicating Mike’s, “is as like her as a youth can be like his mother.” “They are faithful likenesses of the twin brother and sister,” replied Palma. “Now tell me, my dear young lady, about my boy and girl.” “Your daughter, I have said, is sweet and good and very dear to us all who know her. To say that she is married to one of the wealthiest land owners of one of the oldest families in Yorkshire would be true, but it would not be so much as to say that her husband is one of the best, the truest, the most generous and most magnanimous of men.”