The sweetness of the lavender-scented room brought balm to Edith Lee's tired soul. "How lovely she is," she said to herself, as she noted the many thoughtful provisions for her comfort, "and how good it is to be here." A silver-framed photograph stood on her dressing-table, and she picked it up, wondering who it might be. The hair and gown were old-fashioned, and the face seemed old-fashioned also, but, in a moment, she had recognised her mother. [Sidenote: The Newcomer in Green] Tenderness for the dead and the living filled her heart. How dear it was of Madame to have placed it there--this little young mother, just budding into womanhood! It had been taken long before she had known of Edith, or had more than dreamed of love. The arrival of the trunk compelled her to brush away a few foolish tears. She did not stop to unpack, but only took out the dinner gown that lay on top. Promptly at half-past seven, she went down into the living-room, where Alden and his mother were waiting to receive her. Madame smiled with pure delight at the vision that greeted her, but the young man forgot his manners and stared--stared like the veriest schoolboy at the tall, stately figure, clad in shimmering pale green satin that rippled about her feet as she walked, brought out a bit of colour in her cheeks and lips, deepened the brown of her eyes, and, like the stalk and leaves of a tiger-lily, faded into utter insignificance before the burnished masses of her red-gold hair. VIII "Whom God Hath Joined" [Sidenote: A Fortunate Woman] Breakfast had been cleared away and Alden, with evident regret, had gone to school. Madame gave her orders for the day, attended to a bit of dusting which she would trust no one else to do, gathered up the weekly mending and came into the living-room, where the guest sat, idly, robed in a gorgeous negligée of sea-green crêpe which was fully as becoming as her dinner-gown had been the night before. Madame had observed that Mrs. Lee was one of the rarely fortunate women who look as well in the morning as in the evening. Last night, in the glow of the pink-shaded candles, she had been beautiful, and this morning she was no less lovely, though she sat in direct sunlight that made a halo of her hair. The thick, creamy skin, a direct legacy from Louise Lane, needed neither powder nor rouge, and the scarlet lips asked for no touch of carmine. But the big brown eyes were wistful beyond words, the dark hollows beneath spoke of sleepless nights, and the corners of the sweet mouth drooped continually, in spite of valiant efforts to smile. [Sidenote: Why She Came] "I think I should have known you anywhere," Madame began. "You look so much like your mother." "Thank you. It was dear of you to put her picture on my dressing-table. It seemed like a welcome from her."