“Can’t you see it?” she insisted. “Tell me,” I pleaded. “Show me just what you want me to notice most.” “The child,” she said pointing, “is just exactly Amy and the dress is the very red suit she had on when----” “Dear,” I said, “try to collect yourself. Indeed you only imagine what you tell me. There is no picture on this side of the sections. The whole thing is pink. That is the back of the puzzle.” “I don’t see how you can say such a thing,” she raged at me. “I can’t make out why you should. What sort of a test are you putting me through? What does it all mean?” “Will you let me prove to you that this is the back of the puzzle?” I asked. “If you can,” she said shortly. I turned the pieces of the puzzle over, keeping them together as much as possible. I succeeded pretty well with the outer pieces and soon had the rectangle in place. The inner pieces were a good deal mixed up, but even before I had fitted them I exclaimed: “There look at that!” “Well,” she asked. “What do you expect me to see?” “What do you see?” I asked in turn. “I see the back of a puzzle,” she answered. “Don’t you see those front steps?” I demanded, pointing. “I don’t see anything,” she asserted, “except green.” “Do you call that green?” I queried pointing. “I do,” she declared. “Don’t you see the brick-work front of the house?” I insisted, “and the lower part of a window and part of a door. Yes and those front-steps in the corner?” “I don’t see anything of the kind,” she asseverated. “Any more than you do. What I see is just what you see. It’s the back of the puzzle, all pale green.” I had been feverishly putting together the last pieces as she spoke. I could not believe my eyes and, as the last piece fitted in, was struck with amazement. The picture showed an old red-brick house, with brown blinds, all open. The top of the front steps was included in the lower right hand corner, most of the front door above them, all of one window on its level, and the side of another. Above appeared all of one of the second floor windows, and parts of those to right and left of it. The other windows were closed, but the sash of the middle one was raised and from it leaned a little girl, a child with frowzy hair, a dirty face and wearing a blue and white check frock. The child was a perfect likeness of our lost Amy, supposing she had been starved and neglected. I was so affected that I was afraid I should faint. I was positively husky when I asked: “Don’t you see that?” “I see Nile green,” she maintained. “The same as you see.” I swept the pieces into the box. “We are neither of us well,” I said. “I should think you must be deranged to behave so,” she snapped, “and it is no wonder I am not well the way you treat me.” “How could I know what you wanted me to see?” I began. “Wanted you to see!” she cried. “You keep it up? You pretend you didn’t see it, after all? Oh! I have no patience with you.”