He set the light down and opened a closet on his right, and after searching a long time he exclaimed, “Dar is noffin here in dis hole but cobwebs and dust and mice nests”—jerking out a handful and throwing it on the floor. “I just like to know where dat box is,” said he, taking up the light and viewing the place critically. Pompey exclaimed, “Paul, if your mudder has hidden anything she didn’t want everybody to find we will find it in a little closet made purposely for it and well covered up from prying eyes.” He was looking carefully around and hitting a cleet which hung loose from the wall he espied a little door in the side, which the cleet covered up entirely unless it was struck or run against. “I think I have found the place where it is hidden,” said Paul, opening the door and viewing the interior. The wall was covered with dust, and at first he did not discover anything that looked like a box. Just as he was giving up the search he espied a little hole in the wall, and thrusting in his hand he drew out a little box the size of a cigar box. “I have found it at last,” said Paul, handing it to his servant. He knew there was something in it which would deeply affect him. He closed up the place and they went down stairs without speaking. They went directly to the library and Pompey set the box on the table as he said, “Golly, Massa, what do you suppose dar is in this box that your mother took such pains to hide it?” “I do not know,” answered Paul, “I dread to open it. Something seems to tell me it will make me more deeply in trouble than I am now. But, Pompey, that box must be opened,” said the young man, getting up and taking the box in his trembling hands. He viewed it over and saw it opened with a peculiar spring. He touched it and the cover flew up and disclosed the contents. He drew the papers out one after another until all lay on the table. He discovered a picture case, and opening it the fair face of a young girl about eighteen met his view. He gazed at it a moment and in a trembling voice said, “It is like her; the same dreamy eyes and head. Who can it be?” He took out the picture and in the case were the initials, M. H., and a small tress of auburn hair. He put it back in its place of concealment as he said, “My God, here is a mystery I cannot solve. It must be the picture Pompey supposed burned.” As he viewed the picture he exclaimed, “Just the same form and features. I will keep this as my own, and if I can find her or any one it resembles I will show it to her. I am bound to find out this mystery sooner or later, as ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VII.