Peter had struck a very vulnerable spot. Walter Lord's faint feeling of suspicion, if so strong a term may be used, melted away before the frank praise of his work. "Not bad, not bad at all," he said, smiling now, "and, as you say, she was a beautiful child. The most beautiful child I ever saw," dreamily, "except her mother--Anne Blakeslie." "Anne Blakeslie--Anne Blake----" Peter repeated to himself, thoughtfully. Aloud he said: "So you knew her mother, too? Isn't it strange how things come about? The world is a little place, after all." The banality of this last remark did not strike Walter Lord. Instead, he seemed to think it quite an effective sentence. "The world is small, Mr. Clancy. Yes, the world is a little place, after all," he agreed. "Here you drop into Hobart Falls so unexpectedly, and come to my house, which you couldn't possibly have heard about--and all the while you have a picture of one of Anne Blakeslie's children in your pocket." His innocent wonder made Peter feel almost ashamed. But the matter was too important for squeamishness, he assured himself. That last remark-- "So there was more than one child," said Peter, quickly. "Were they all as beautiful as this--this Rosamond?" "There were only two," answered Lord, reminiscently. "Two twin girls. The other was named for her mother." "Anne?" "Yes. Anne and Rosamond," said the old man, gently. "Did you know them well?" asked Peter, and added--"It's such a funny coincidence, altogether. Makes me sort of curious about them." Walter Lord leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and gazed out at the red gold of the summer sunset. "Yes," he said, softly. "Yes, I knew them well. That is, I knew the children--and their mother--I knew her best of all----" There was something in Walter Lord's quaint old face which kept Peter silent. He could not interrupt with the questions which were burning to be asked. He would let the story come in its own way.... After a moment the old man went on: "Yes," with a little sigh, "I knew Anne Blakeslie--you might say I'd always known her. She lived on a farm, up back in the hills, and we both went to the little brick school house down at the end of the village. Guess you didn't see it. It's just around the turn of the road." "No," said Peter, softly, so as not to break the thread of the old man's thought. "Yes--we saw each other every day--until I went away to school--and when Tom died, and I had to come home to stay--Anne Blakeslie had grown up in the meantime, and she was beautiful--beautiful in soul as well as in body--or, perhaps, it wouldn't have happened----" A purple cloud drifted across the setting sun. Its shadow fell softly upon the old face. "What was it that happened?" prompted the younger man, gently. "Why," Walter Lord roused himself with an effort, "it was about that time she must have come to know Winthrop Curwood. It's sort of an odd story. Maybe you'd like to hear----"