“But I wanted to know,” Harriot persisted, and there was a momentary argument before the matter was disposed of; although Dorothea noticed that Miss Imogene did not betray the name of the gentleman who had sent her the crystal slipper. It took a good while to unpack all of the trunks, for each piece of finery was exhibited and talked over and admired by these Southern ladies whom the war had now deprived of all such pretty things. But it was finally accomplished. The cupboards and bureau drawers were filled and the empty boxes banished to the attic. “At last, my dear, you are at home,” said Mrs. May as she surveyed the room, once more in order. “And you must rest an hour before supper.” “I really don’t feel tired, Aunt Parthenia,” Dorothea demurred; “I never take naps.” “Neither do I!” Harriot put in with a note of triumph; decidedly this new cousin was to her taste. “And I always do,” Miss Imogene remarked placidly. “It keeps the roses blooming longer in our cheeks.” With a light laugh she went off with April, followed by the reluctant Harriot, who seemed very averse to leaving Dorothea even for a moment. “I shall wait and see that you obey me,” Mrs. May said as she closed the door behind her daughter. “Come, my dear, put on a wrapper and rest, even if you don’t sleep.” Dorothea set about doing as Mrs. May suggested, glad to have the elder lady to herself for a little. It was more than just a visit to her relatives in Georgia that had brought her there, though the chief reason lay very deep in her heart. “Aunt Parthenia,” she began as she sat in a comfortable chair beside her aunt, “you are glad to see me, aren’t you?” Mrs. May guessed what was in her mind, indeed she had stayed behind the others on purpose to have a little talk with her niece. So she reached out and took the girl’s hand gently in her own. “My dearest child,” she said warmly, “I am more than glad to see you. Your mother was my only sister, and I can’t tell you how I have longed to know the little girl she left behind. Do you remember her at all, honey?” “A little,” Dorothea answered. “Of course I was very small when she died, but I can still recollect a dear face that bent over me before I went to sleep at night. Even now I see it sometimes, just as I am going off. One of the things I want most was to have you tell me about her. Father says hardly anything—it hurts him to think about it, I know, because I can always see a shadow come over his face when I mention my mother. So I do not like to make his heart ache. But, oh, Aunt Parthenia, I have longed for some one to talk to who remembers her. She was very pretty, wasn’t she? Does this look like her?” On her wrist Dorothea wore a gold clasp mounted on a red velvet ribbon, and opening this case she showed it to her aunt. Mrs. May gazed at the picture, her eyes growing soft in her recollection of the girlish face she saw, and for a moment or two there was silence in the room.