"Yes, that is Count von Butler's portrait," said she, in a clear voice, without emotion. He was not so composed. "Then it _was_ you," he said. Following her example, he took a chair and looked earnestly at the pictured face. "When Miss Raimund spoke of you so warmly, I noticed that the name was the same, and I determined to inquire, but it seemed to me unlikely. Yet it is. Miss Wing, I have a message to you, from my uncle." She noticed that there were gold motes in the air; and his pleasant, blond face seemed to wander through them; the room was full of sunlight. "I was with him when he died." That was a strange thing to hear when the message of his uncle's death had come to him in another country; she hoped that her brain was not going to play her false. "It was fifteen years ago last July, you know. I never knew how many details you received, or only the bare fact in the papers." Fifteen years! fifteen years! What was that date he was giving? That was the day on which she sailed for America, the day after--what was that story he was telling of a visit and a fire and a child rescued and an accident? But still she listened with the same iron composure. The next words she heard distinctly. "It was like him to lose his life that way; and he did not grudge it. Yet it was hard that I should be the only one of his blood with him. He could speak with difficulty when he told me to take a lock of hair and his signet ring to you. He dictated the address, himself, to me. 'You must be sure and take it,' he said. 'It is to the lady that I hoped would be my betrothed; you must tell grandmamma about it, too. She has my picture and she knows--but tell her'--and then, I think his mind must have wandered a little, for he smiled brightly at me, saying, '_I'll_ tell her, myself,' and then the doctors came. He said nothing more, only once, they told me, he murmured something about his betrothed. But I had the ring; he took it off his finger and kissed it and gave it to me. Child as I was, I knew that it was sacred. I wrapped it in the paper, and afterward I put the lock of hair beside it. So soon as I could, I went to Heidelberg, to the pension. You had gone and there was no address, no trace--" "I left my address with the countess--" "My aunt is dead," said the young German gravely. "I would not criticize her, but she had her own choice of a wife for my uncle; I do not think one could trust her with addresses." "We all gave ours to her to give to Frau Müller." "That is why, then, I could not find you. My grandmother also tried. But you were gone. I thought of the banks, long after, but I found nothing. Often it has seemed dreadful that you should learn of this only through the papers. But I could not tell whether--_anything_. When I came to America, I confess it was always in my mind. I always carried my uncle's little packet with me. I will have it sent to you."