Reassured, and not in the least lame, Grandmother went to the brick chimney that came up through the attic, and mounted a decrepit chair. She scratched and pried at a certain brick with her scissors, then removed it quietly. Reaching in, she drew out a black bag, whence came a sound of tinkling metal. Rosemary, peering around the corner of the trunk, could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses. Grandmother took out a twenty-dollar gold piece, restored the bag to its place, put the brick back, and went down-stairs with the quiet, stealthy movement of a cat. Presently Rosemary went down-stairs also, with the box, stopping to leave it in her own room. Cold with excitement, she trembled when she went into the kitchen and began to make preparations for supper. She heard warring voices in the sitting-room, then Grandmother came to the kitchen door. [Sidenote: The Old Photograph] "Oh," she said. "So you came in the back way. I didn't hear you come in. Reckon I must have been asleep." Rosemary did not answer. She longed to be alone in her own room with the inlaid box, which now assumed a mystery and portent it had never had before, but it was almost midnight before, by the flickering light of a candle-end, she broke it open, smothering the slight sound with the patchwork quilt. She hoped for stationery, but there was none. It contained an old photograph and a letter addressed to Grandmother Starr. Rosemary leaned to the light with the photograph, studying it eagerly. It was old and faded, but the two were still distinct--a young woman in an elaborate wedding gown, standing beside a man who was sitting upon an obviously uncomfortable chair. The man, in a way, resembled Grandmother Starr; the lady looked like Rosemary, except that she was beautiful. "Father!" cried Rosemary, in an agonising whisper. "Mother!" Face to face at last with those of her own blood, dead though they were! The little mother was not more than two or three and twenty: the big strong father was about twenty-five. She had never been shown the picture, nor had even guessed its existence. Since she was old enough to think about it all, she had wondered what her father and mother looked like. [Sidenote: Her Father's Letter] Thrilled with a new, mysterious sense of kinship, she dwelt lovingly upon every line of the pictured faces, holding the photograph safely beyond the reach of the swift-falling tears. She was no longer fatherless, motherless; alone. Out of the dust of the past, like some strangely beautiful resurrection, these two had come to her, richly dowered with personality. It was late when she put down the picture and took up the letter, which was addressed to Grandmother Starr. She took it out of the envelope, unfolded the crackling, yellowed pages, and read: "Dear Mother;