She stood and pointed to it with the air of exhibiting a marvel. I looked at it but could not conjecture the cause of her excitement. The pieces seemed too large, too clumsy and too uniform in outline. It looked a crude and clumsy puzzle, beneath her notice. “Why did you buy it?” I asked. “I met a peddler on the street,” she answered, “and he was so wretched-looking, I was sorry for him. He was young and thin and looked haggard and consumptive. I looked at him and I suppose I showed my feelings. He said: “Lady, buy a puzzle. It will help you to your heart’s desire.” “His words were so odd I bought it, and now just look at what it is.” I was groping for some foothold upon which to rally my thoughts. “Let me see the box in which it came,” I asked. She produced it and I read on the top: “GUGGENHEIM’S DOUBLE PICTURE PUZZLE. TWO IN ONE. MOST FOR THE MONEY. ASK FOR GUGGENHEIM’S” And on the end-- “ASTRAY. A BREATH OF AIR. 50 CENTS.” “It’s queer,” Helen remarked. “But it is not a double puzzle at all, though the pieces have the same paper on both sides. One side is blank. I suppose this is ASTRAY. Don’t you think so?” “Astray?” I queried, puzzled. “Oh,” she cried, in a disappointed, disheartened, almost querulous tone. “I thought you would be so much struck with the resemblance. You don’t seem to notice it at all. Why even the dress is identical!” “The dress?” I repeated. “How many times have you done this?” “Only this once,” she said. “I had just finished it when I heard your key in the lock.” “I should have thought,” I commented, “that it would have been more interesting to do it face up first.” “Face up!” She cried. “It is face up.” Her air of scornful superiority completely shook me out of my sedulous consideration of a moment before. “Nonsense,” I said, “that’s the back of the puzzle. There are no colors there. It’s all pink.” “Pink!” she exclaimed pointing. “Do you call that pink!” “Certainly it’s pink,” I asserted. “Don’t you see there the white of the old man’s beard,” she queried, pointing again. “And there the black of his boots? And there the red of the little girl’s dress?” “No,” I declared. “I don’t see anything of the kind. It’s all pink. There isn’t any picture there at all.” “No picture!” she cried. “Don’t you see the old man leading the child by the hand?” “No,” I said harshly, “I don’t see any picture and you know I don’t. There isn’t any picture there. I can’t make out what you are driving at. It seems a senseless joke.” “Joke! I joke!” Helen half whispered. The tears came into her eyes. “You are cruel,” she said, “and I thought you would be struck by the resemblance.” I was overwhelmed by a pang of self-reproach, solicitude and terror. “Resemblance to what?” I asked gently.