"No, she doesn't," admitted Betty, with a long sigh. Then, impulsively, she added: "She seems so very afraid of meeting people that I've wondered sometimes if maybe she had old friends here and--and didn't want to meet them because--perhaps, her circumstances were changed now. That isn't like mother, but-- Oh, I shouldn't say all this to you, Mr. Denby. I--I didn't think, really. I spoke before I thought. You seemed so--interested." "I am interested, my dear--Miss Darling," returned the man, not quite steadily. "I--I think I should like to know--your mother." "She's lovely." "Are you--like her?" He had contrived to throw into his eyes a merry challenge--against her taking this as she might take it. But Betty was too absorbed to be flippant, or even merrily self-conscious. "Why, I don't know, but I don't think so--except my eyes. Every one says my eyes _are_ like hers." Burke Denby got suddenly to his feet and walked quite across the room. Apparently he was examining a rare old Venetian glass Tear Vase, especially prized by him for its associations. In reality he was trying to master the tumult within him. He had now not one remaining doubt. This stupendous thing was really so. She was his Elizabeth; his--Betty. Yet there remained still one more test. He must ask about her--father. And for this he must especially brace himself: he could imagine what Helen must have taught her--of him. Very slowly, the vase still unconsciously clutched in his hand, Burke Denby walked back to the table and sat down. "Well, as I said, I should like to see your mother," he smiled. "I feel that I know her already. But--your father; I don't think you have told me a thing about your father yet." A rapt wistfulness came to the girl's face. "Father! Oh, but I never stop talking when I get to telling of him. You see, I never knew him." "No?" Infinite longing and tenderness were coming into the man's eyes. "But I know _about_ him. Mother has told me, you see. So I know just how fine and noble and splendid he was, and--" "_Fine--he--was?_" The words, as they fell from Burke Denby's dry lips were barely audible. "Oh, yes. You see, all the way, ever since I could remember, daddy has been held up to me as so fine and splendid. Why, I learned to hold my fork--and my temper!--the way daddy would want me to. And there wasn't a song or a sunset or a beautiful picture that I wasn't told how daddy would have loved it. Mother was always talking of him, and telling me about him; so I feel that I know him, just as if he were alive." "As--if--he--_were_--alive!" Burke Denby half started from his chair, his face a battle-ground for contending emotions. "Yes. But he isn't, you see. He died many, many years ago." There was the sudden tinkling of shattered glass on a polished floor. "Oh, Mr. Denby!" exclaimed Betty in consternation. "Your beautiful vase!"