“I have to see Dr. Netherbridge on business,” said Stella, while the doctor’s wife peered out with disapproval at her matutinal visitor’s fresh young face. “Oh!” said Mrs. Netherbridge, dryly. “Are you ill?” “No.” “My husband, Dr. Netherbridge, is not accustomed to receive visitors who do not come about illness at seven o’clock in the morning. He isn’t down yet. If you want to see him, you had better call again.” And with that, Dr. Netherbridge’s helpmeet was shutting the door in Stella’s face, when a man’s voice from the floor above was heard inquiring who the visitor was. “I am Miss Cranstoun, from the Chase, Dr. Netherbridge, and I shall be grateful if you can spare me a few minutes’ conversation.” “Certainly--certainly. I will be down immediately. Letitia, show Miss Cranstoun into the drawing-room.” The top-spinning boy, finding time hanging heavily on his hands, had followed Stella to the doctor’s house, and remained near, staring, while the young lady, holding Black Bess’ bridle, stood parleying with Mrs. Netherbridge by the open door. Stella caught sight of him now, and addressed him, with one of her charming smiles. “Are you clever enough to hold this horse for me while I go inside the house for a few minutes?” she inquired. “You shall have sixpence for your trouble.” The boy nodded, and Stella followed Mrs. Netherbridge, who, with frosty civility, showed her into a prim and old-maidish drawing-room, where she was soon joined by Dr. Netherbridge. “Forgive me for disturbing you so early,” Stella began. The little doctor’s face inspired in her exactly the same feeling of confidence and friendliness which her mother had felt toward him years ago. “I have come,” she continued, “because I think you are the only person who can and will tell me the truth on a most important point. Yesterday, when you saw me for the first time, you said you recognized me by my likeness to my mother. The present Lady Cranstoun and I are totally dissimilar; you cannot, therefore, have meant _her_.” Her brilliant dark-blue eyes were fixed searchingly, imploringly upon his face. Dr. Netherbridge was too sincere not to change color and show some slight sign of embarrassment. “Family likenesses are unaccountable things,” he was beginning, when she cut him short. “There is no longer any need for concealment,” she said, eagerly. “Last night Sir Philip Cranstoun told me I was born in a hovel, and daughter of a gypsy. Are those things true?” “You were certainly born in a small cottage on your father’s property in this neighborhood,” the doctor answered; “and your mother was of gypsy extraction.” “Tell me all you can about her.” “She must have been extremely beautiful when in good health. At the time when I first met her, she was very little older than you are now, but she was deliberately starving herself to death, and her beauty was necessarily impaired.”