"Isn't it strange, Miss Rothermel, that there isn't any picture of Mrs. Andrews anywhere about the house? I should think their father would be afraid of the children forgetting all about her. I often talk to them about her, but I don't know much to say, because none of us ever saw her; and Mr. Andrews never talks about her to them, and I am sure Jay doesn't remember her at all. There was once a little box that Jay dragged out of a closet in the attic, and in the evening after he found it, he was playing with it in the parlor by his father, and Gabby caught sight of it, and cried, 'That's my mamma's box; give it to me, Jay.' They had a little quarrel for it, and Gabby got it, and then Jay forgot all about it, and went to play with something else. But," went on Eliza, lowering her voice, "that evening I saw Mr. Andrews, after the children had gone to bed, empty all Gabrielle's things out of the box, and carry it up stairs, and put it away in a locked-up closet in the hall." "Probably he wanted to punish her for taking it away from Jay," said Missy, insincerely, feeling all the time that it was not the thing for her to be allowing Eliza to tell her this. "No," said Eliza, "for he brought her home a beautiful new box the next evening, and he wouldn't have done that if he had wished to punish her, I think." "Eliza, don't you think you'd better see if the fire is good in the kitchen? Mr. Andrews might want a cup of coffee made, or something cooked to eat. He must be very tired." Eliza meekly received her dismissal, and went into the kitchen. At half-past eleven o'clock Missy heard the gate open, and went forward to meet Mr. Andrews at the door. "You are very tired," she said, falteringly. "I believe I am," he returned, following her into the parlor. She was shocked when she saw him fully in the light of the lamp. He looked tired indeed, and begrimed with smoke, his coat torn, his arm tied up in a rude fashion, as if it had been hurt. "Sit down," she said, hurriedly pulling out a chair. He stumbled into it. "I really didn't know how tired I was," he said, laying back his head. "Can't I get you some coffee, or some wine? You ought to take something at once, I think." "I'd like a glass of wine," he said, rather faintly. "Here's the key. You'll find it in the sideboard." But when he attempted to get the hand that wasn't bandaged into his pocket, he stopped, with a gesture of pain. "Confound it!" he said; "it's a strain, I suppose;" and then he grew rather white. "Let me get it," said Missy, hurriedly. "The inside pocket of my coat--left side," he said. She fumbled in the pocket, rather agitatedly, feeling very sorry that he was so suffering, but not sorry enough to make her forget that it was very awkward for her to be bending over him and searching in his inside pocket for a key. At last she found it, and ran and fetched the wine. He seemed a little better when he drank it.