After the meal with her grandfather was finished, he showed her where to find an old photograph album, hidden behind the books in his bookcase. "There," said he, opening it at a page containing four small pictures. "This is your mother when she was six months old. She was three or four years old in this next one, and here is one at the age of twelve. She was seventeen when this last one was taken." "Is this all there are?" asked Jeanne, who had studied the four little pictures earnestly. "Of her, I mean?" "Yes, only those four. Young people didn't have cameras in those days, you know." "Keep the place for me," said Jeanne, returning the book to her grandfather's knee. "I'll be back in just a second." She returned very quickly with the miniature of Elizabeth Huntington Duval that she had been longing to show to her grandfather. "My father had a friend who was an artist," said Jeanne, breathlessly. "He painted that soon after they were married. For a _present_, father said. Wasn't it a nice one?" "Why, I'm delighted to see this, my dear," said her grandfather, gazing eagerly at the lovely face. "It's by far the best picture of Bessie I've ever seen. It is very like her and her face is full of happiness--I'm very glad of that. I had no idea of its existence. I am very glad indeed that you thought of showing it to me." "So am I," said Jeanne. "You're always so good to me that I'm glad I could give _you_ a pleasure for once." "You must take very good care of this," said Mr. Huntington. "It's a very fine miniature." "I always do," returned Jeanne. "I thought it was ever so good of my father to give it to me--the only one he had." "It was, indeed," said Mr. Huntington, appreciatively. "Now, put it away, my dear, and keep it safe." In the dining-room, to which the guests had just been ushered by James in his very grandest manner, a lady had leaned forward to say, gushingly, to her hostess: "What a _lovely_ child your youngest daughter is, Mrs. Huntington. I saw her at dancing school last week and simply fell in love with her. So graceful and _such_ a charming face. She came in with your son." "Clara _is_ a lovely child," returned Mrs. Huntington, complacently. "I think," said the guest, "my little son said that her name was Jeannette." "That," said Mrs. Huntington, coldly (people were always singing that wretched child's praises), "was merely my husband's niece, who has been placed in our care for a short time. That time, I am happy to say, is almost half over. She is a great trial. Fortunately, _my_ children have been too well brought up to be influenced by her incomprehensible behavior; her hoidenish manners."