The outer door of the shack opened and shut! Hurrying feet ran across the floor of the living room, the lean-to door was flung back, and, all palpitating and wide-eyed, Joyce confronted the boy. "You--Billy!" The glorious light died out of the big eyes, the pale, expectant face set into lines of hopeless disappointment. "I thought--" the mouth quivered pitifully, and Billy felt the added sting of discovered shame. In a moment things steadied themselves, Joyce was mistress of the situation. "What have you there?" she asked sharply. In the distraction she had not noticed that the chest was open. "Her picture!" "Her! Who?" Joyce came over to Billy, and looked at the face he held at arm's length. Something numbed every sense but sight. That sense must convey the image of the girl-face to Joyce's brain, and implant it there so effectually that it could never be forgotten. And that very morning Joyce had seen its counterpart on the highway! "Who--is--that?" she demanded. "It's her up to the bungalow. They call her--Ruth. See! here it is writ on the back--'Ruth'; her other name is Mis' Dale." The face was burned in now for all time; and the other faculties began to throb into life. "Billy, where did you get that?" Then both boy and woman looked at the desecrated chest--and all was told. Even while she was wildly pushing facts from her, Joyce saw, rising before her, a completed structure of John Gaston's past. That exquisite girl was she who had held his love before--and she had married the brother! Then Gaston's name was Dale. Oh! how vividly, hideously clear it was. It seemed as if she had always known it. Even the pictured face was as familiar now as Gaston's own. But Joyce's cold lips were forming the words: "Billy you lie! You brought that over to show me. Tell me the truth." She had him by the shoulder, and her fierce eyes frightened him. "I have told you the truth; so help me! There she is now; look!" Joyce turned as Billy pointed to the window. Outside, near the grave of _her_ baby, stood Constance Drew and the girl whose picture Billy held limply in his hand. Constance Drew was talking, but the stranger's sweet face was turned toward the house, and Joyce saw that her eyes were full of tears. "Billy"; Joyce clutched the thin shoulder; "put that back! Now lock the chest, and listen. If you ever tell a living soul what you have done--Mr. Gaston will--kill you!" Billy obeyed with dumb fear. "Now, go out of the shed door. Go--don't let them see you!" Billy was gone, forgetting even to mention the letter lying on the living-room table. Then Joyce waited. Out in front, they two--Miss Drew and that girl--seemed rooted to the spot near the baby's grave. Feeling had departed from Joyce--she simply waited. Finally they, outside, turned. They walked directly to the house, and knocked. They knocked again.