"Yes. Her mother is French--she was a countess, by the way. Celeste has that picture hanging in her den--and her den is a wonder, too--and she never fails to tell about that little experience down in Indiana. She'll be crazy to meet you." Jud's heart gave a leap. He was bewildered in a tumult of emotions. The recognition of the portrait, the mysterious coincidence in names--the one his imagination had given her, and the one she bore; the thoughts that she remembered him and Justine; that his picture hung in her den; that she might really be glad to see him. Impossibilities upon impossibilities! "My picture in her den?" he managed to stammer, feeling sure that his friend could detect an emotion that might require explanation. "Sure--most prominent thing in the room. She says the boy who drew it will be a master some day. The trouble is, she forgot your name. She says she'd know your face or the girl's anywhere, but the name is gone. By George, this will please her." The girl's! Jud's thoughts flew back to Justine, tenderly, even resentfully, for why should this careless city maid speak of her as "the girl"? "I'll take you to call, Sherrod. I know she'll be glad to see you, and I'll surprise her. This is great! Let's see: I'll say you are a particular friend, but I'll not give up your name. She'd remember it. I can see her now when she first gazes upon your face. Great!" Jud went home that night in a delightful torture of anticipation. After all these months of waiting and watching, fate--nothing less than fate--was to bring him to her side with the long unspoken words of gratitude and joy. What would she be like? How would she look? How would she be dressed? Not in that familiar gray of his memory, to be sure, but--but--and so he wondered, as he tossed in his bed that night. It would be some days before Converse could take him to the home of Miss Wood, and until then he must be content with imaginings. One thing worried him. Just before he left his friend, Douglass had asked with an unhidden concern in his voice: "You're sure you've got a sweetheart down there?" Jud's heart stopped beating for a second. Something within him urged him to cry out that he had no sweetheart, but a loving, loyal wife. But the old spirit of timidity conquered. "I am sure I had one," he replied, and his heart throbbed with relief. "And you're the kind of a fellow who'll stick to her, too. I know you well enough to say that," said the other warmly, as if some odd misgiving had passed from his mind. "Thanks for the good opinion," said Jud, a great lump clogging his throat.