"You don't say so! Your uncle, Mr. Paine? But I ought to have guessed— quite the young farmer, leggings and all. And now I see—so like Farmer Paine! A perfectly charming old man!" Mrs. Morris was silent. "Now here is another, which I am sure must have been a triumph of skill. Do look, Miss Stirling. A painted photo, and really well done. Such a pretty creature—hair and complexion quite bewitching, and the sweetest roguish smile. The sort of face a man would fall in love with on the spot. Not a daughter of your own, Mrs. Morris! Though I see just a look of Winnie. A cousin, perhaps." "That's me." Mrs. Brutt looked from the picture to her, from her to the picture. "Really!" she said. The information came as a shock. "Dear me! Really!" It was all she could bring herself to utter, with the utmost stretch of politeness. "Dear me—how very—how extremely—" "People alter as they get older," jerked out Mrs. Morris. Mrs. Brutt made no effort to combat a truth so self-evident; but the present application of it went beyond bounds. She took up a small closed frame of leather, not realising in her confusion that the act might be counted a liberty, and opened it with a—"May I?" Leave did not come, neither did she wait for it. "Is this—oh, I see!" as again she read "Phil Morris" written below. "Ah, so this is your husband. Poor thing!"—with a sympathy which called forth no gratitude. "A painting, I see,—not a photo. Done by an amateur." To Katherine she whispered: "Do look! How awful!" Then aloud: "Quite a speaking likeness; and how you must value it!" She put her head on one side, studying the narrow low brow, the common illiterate face, the insipid simper. Doris for the first time made a move, and had a clear view of the portrait, which impressed itself vividly on her mind. Little did she dream when, and under what circumstances, memory would one day haul it up for her startled inspection. Mrs. Brutt flowed easily on. "But I see quite a resemblance to your elder daughter; a kind of expression, not features. And he died—how many years ago?" She was treating Mrs. Morris as she treated the women in her district, showing what she intended for a kindly interest. They liked to be asked questions, or she imagined that they did; and why should not this woman like it too? Mrs. Morris muttered something which sounded rather like "Twenty." "Twenty years do you say? Ah, a long time. But years mean nothing where the heart is concerned. Twenty years may be only as twenty days. And he was—how did it happen?" Mrs. Morris jerked out one word—"Drowned." "Really. But how sad! So sudden! So unexpected!" A pause. "I wonder how soon the fly will be here." Mrs. Brutt was conscious again of exhaustion. She put down the defunct husband, and tried a new notion.