"And Dornton," said Anna, "what is that like?" "Dornton," said Mr Forrest absently--"Dornton is the same dull little hole of a town I remember it then." "Oh," said Anna in a disappointed voice. "There's a fine old church, though, and the river's nice enough. I used to know every turn in that river.--Well," rising abruptly and leaning his arm against the mantel-piece, "it's a long while ago--a long while ago--it's like another life." "Used you to stay often at Waverley?" Anna ventured to ask presently. Mr Forrest had fallen into a day-dream, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He looked up when Anna spoke as though he had forgotten her presence. "It was there I first met your mother," he said, "or rather, at Dornton. We were married in Dornton church." "Oh," said Anna, very much interested, "did mother live at Dornton? I never knew that." "And that reminds me," said Mr Forrest, taking a leather case out of his pocket, and speaking with an effort, "I've something I want to give you before you go away. You may as well have it now. To-morrow we shall be both in a hurry. Come here." He opened the case and showed her a small round portrait painted on ivory. It was the head of a girl of eighteen, exquisitely fair, with sweet, modest-looking eyes. "Your mother," he said briefly. Anna almost held her breath. She had never seen a picture of her mother before, and had very seldom heard her mentioned. "How lovely!" she exclaimed. "May I really have it to keep?" "I had it copied for you from the original," said Mr Forrest. "Oh, father, thank you so much," said Anna earnestly. "I do so love to have it." Mr Forrest turned away suddenly, and walked to the window. He was silent for some minutes, and Anna stood with the case in her hand, not daring to speak to him. She had an instinct that it was a painful subject. "Well," he said at last, "I need not tell you to take care of it. When I come back you'll be nearly as old as she was when that was painted. I can't hope more than that you may be half as good and beautiful." Anna gazed earnestly at the portrait. There were some words in tiny letters beneath it: "Priscilla Goodwin," she read, "aged eighteen." Priscilla! A soft, gentle sort of name, which seemed to suit the face. If father wanted me to look like this, she thought to herself, he shouldn't have called me "Anna." How could any one named Anna grow so pretty! "Why was I named Anna?" she asked. "It was your mother's wish," replied Mr Forrest. "I believe it was her mother's name." "Is my grandmother alive?" said Anna. "No; she died years before I ever saw your mother. Your grandfather, old Mr Goodwin, is living still--at Dornton." "At Dornton!" exclaimed Anna in extreme surprise. "Then why don't I go to stay with him while you're away, instead of at Waverley?" "Because," said Mr Forrest, turning from the window to face his daughter, "it has been otherwise arranged."