I address you regarding a peculiar experience I have just had. I am deaf, therefore I never go to the theatre, as I can’t hear the lines. But I go often to the Moving Pictures. Of late I have been taking lessons in Lip Reading, and though I have not yet progressed very far in it, I can read lips sometimes, especially if the speaker makes an effort to form words distinctly. Now last night I went to the Movies and in a picture there was a girl, who seemed to be speaking yet there was no occasion in the story for her to do so. She was merely one of a crowd standing in a meadow or field. But as practice in my Lip Reading I watched her and I am sure she said, “I am Betty Varian,—I am Betty Varian.” This seemed so strange that I went again this afternoon, and saw the picture again,—and I am sure that was what she said,—over and over. I don’t know that this will interest you, but I feel I ought to tell you. Very truly yours, Ella Sheridan. “It can’t mean anything,” Minna said. “Wherever Betty is, she isn’t in a moving picture company!” “But wait a minute,” cried Granniss, “when they take pictures of crowds, you know,—in a field or meadow, they pick up any passer-by or any one they can get to fill in.” “Even so,” Zizi said, “I can’t see it. I think somebody was talking about Betty and the girl read the lips wrong. She’s only a beginner, she says. I’ve heard it’s a most difficult thing to learn.” “I don’t care,” Granniss said, “it’s got to be looked into. I’m going to answer this letter,—no, I’m going straight down there, it’s from Portland, and I’m going to see that picture myself.” “Make sure it’s still being shown,” said the practical Zizi. “I’ll telegraph and ask her,” cried Rodney; his face alight at the thought of doing some real work himself. “Oh, don’t go, Rod,” Minna said; “I can’t get along without you,—and what good will it do? You know a picture isn’t the real people, and—oh, it’s all too vague and hazy——” “No, it isn’t,” Granniss insisted. “It’s the first real clue. Why didn’t that girl notice what the girl in the picture looked like? Oh, of course I must go! I can get to Portland and back in three days, and—why, I’ve got to go!” And go he did. The picture was still on at the theater, and with a beating heart Rodney took his seat to watch it. He could scarce wait for the preliminary scenes, he knew no bit of the plot or what happened to the characters: he sat tense and watchful for the appearance of the crowd on the meadow. At last it came,—and, he nearly sprang from his seat,—it _was_ Betty! Betty Varian herself,—he could not be mistaken! She wore a simple gingham frock, a plain straw hat, and had no sign of the smartness that always characterized Betty’s clothes, but he could not be deceived in that face, that dear, lovely face of Betty herself!