"It's Miss Camilla herself," answered Sally. "I used to think you were rather silly to be so crazy about her and admire her so much. I'd never thought anything about her and I'd known her most all my life. But since she asked us that day to come and see her as often as we liked and stop at her house whenever we were up this way, and consider her as our friend, I've somehow come to feel differently. I'm glad we took her at her word and did it. I don't think I would have, if it hadn't been for you. But you've insisted on our stopping at her house so frequently, and we've become so well acquainted with her that I really think I--I almost--love her." It pleased Doris beyond words to hear Sally make this admission. She wanted Sally to appreciate all that was fine and admirable and lovely in Miss Camilla, even if she were poor and lonely and deaf. She felt that the friendship would be good for Sally, and she knew that she herself was profiting by the increased acquaintance with this friend they had so strangely made. "Wasn't it nice of her to teach us to knit?" went on Sally. "She said we all ought to be doing it now to help out our soldiers, since the country is at war." "She's taught me lots beside that," said Doris. "I just love to hear her talk about old potteries and porcelains and that sort of thing. I do believe she knows more about them than even grandfather does. She's making me crazy to begin a collection myself some day when I'm old enough. She must have had a fine collection once. I do wonder what became of it." "Well, I don't understand much about all that talk," admitted Sally. "I never saw any porcelains worth while in all my life, except that little thing she has on her mantel. And I don't see anything to get so crazy about in that. It's kind of pretty, of course, but why get excited about it? What puzzles me more is why she never has said what became of all her other things." "That's a part of the mystery," said Doris. "And her brother's mixed up in it somehow, and perhaps her father. That much I'm sure of. She talks freely enough about everything else except those things, so that must be it. Do you know what I'm almost tempted to think? That her brother _did_ commit some crime, and her father hid him away in the cave to escape from justice, but she couldn't have known about it, that's plain. Because she did not know about the cave and tunnel at all till just lately. Perhaps she wondered what became of him. And maybe they sold all her lovely porcelains to make up for what he'd done somehow." "Yes," cried Sally in sudden excitement. "And another idea has just come to me. Maybe that queer paper was a note her brother left for her and she can't make out how to read it. Did you ever think of that?"