“I can’t say confidently whether he would recognize you or not,” she said, answering her question. “He might think there was something familiar about you, and yet seeing you in such a crowd, not feel confident you were the same person. You may have changed more to other eyes than to mine you know. But what has that to do with your tears, my pet?” “One more question, auntie, first,” persisted Dora, turning away her burning face from madam’s piercing gaze. “Did you notice Mr. Ellerton when he picked up my bouquet?” “Yes, dear,” replied her aunt, starting violently, and becoming more and more convinced that the two were old friends. She went on. “He gazed very earnestly at you for a few moments. He then turned his look upon the flowers again, and suddenly became very pale and abstracted. I looked at you then, and your eyes were downcast, while I thought you looked confused, about a very little thing—if throwing a bouquet could make you lose your self-possession.” “It wasn’t that, auntie,” returned Dora, desperately. “I—I—put a note in that bouquet.” “Dora—Dora Dupont!” cried Madame Alroyd, in a voice of amazement, and lifting her hands in horror. “You don’t mean to tell me that you did such an indelicate thing as that! I don’t wonder now at his strange looks. Did you ever know that young man before?” “Yes, auntie,” replied her niece, in a low, clear voice. “Robert Ellerton is my husband!” “What!” shrieked the old lady, bounding from her seat like an India rubber ball, and gazing upon Dora as if she thought she was demented. “It is true, auntie,” said she, sadly, “and the note I put among my flowers was to tell him I was here, and asking him to come to me.” “Is the child crazy? I believe you are. Oh, I wish we had never come here now. For pity’s sake tell me what you mean, child!” she muttered wildly, while she walked the floor with a woeful face and wrung her hands. “Sit down, auntie, and be quiet, and I will tell you all about it,” replied Dora, calmly; intensely relieved that her secret was out, and a secret no longer. She led Madame Alroyd to an easy-chair, then bringing a footstool she sat down at her feet. She laid her head lovingly in her lap, and then repeated the story of her marriage, her love for Robert, how it had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. And this was the reason why she had persisted in coming to be present at his graduation. She showed her the locket, which she had always worn next to her heart, and Madame Alroyd felt, as she gazed upon the honest and handsome face of our hero, that treachery or fickleness could not lurk in the heart of one who possessed such truthful eyes, and such a frank, open countenance. She had listened in speechless amazement to the strange tale, and when Dora finished, she asked in a husky voice: “Why have you never told me this before, Dora?”