"Oh yes," said Jessie; "he brought them all the way up to me. Poor fellow!" "Why do you call him that?" "It seems so severe for him, having her stay away at such a distance, and for so long. He's dreadfully in love with her." "Yes, I know he is," Lance confessed. "Those times when I was with him so much, and you hardly liked it, I was talking with him about her and trying to console him. He let me into his confidence, and told me how he was afraid he had driven her from him and should never get her back. But Sylv used to send an encouraging message, now and then. Has he sent any more?" "Sylv has hardly written at all," said Jessie. Lance mused aloud: "That's strange." "Yes," responded his sweetheart, in a tone as if she were about to say more; but she did not go on. At this point Lance thought it best to bring forward his little surprise. Excusing himself, he went to his room and came back with the drawing. "By the way," he began, reseating himself, "I wonder if Adela has changed much in looks, under the influence of education. It would be curious to see her, wouldn't it?" "I saw her," said Jessie, "just before she went back, after you left us, at Christmas." "Well, then, you can tell. What do you think of this?" And her lover produced the portrait. Jessie stared at it in some astonishment. "Where under the sun did that come from?" she exclaimed. "Was it done for you?" "What do you think of it?" he repeated. "It isn't perfect," was the answer; "but still, I should know it, I think. Why, Ned, are you cheating me? It isn't meant for Adela, is it? You naughty boy, I could almost think it was an attempt to show how _I_ shall look when I'm stouter! It's a joke." "Then you think it's like you?" he inquired. "Does it strike you?" "I won't say another word, until you tell me _what_ it is." "It is a picture of Gertrude Wylde," Lance returned. Then there was silence for a moment. Jessie took the drawing and looked at it intently. Her voice was low, and quivered with a sort of frightened tremor when she next spoke. "Why didn't you tell me at first, Ned? And what did you mean by speaking as if it were Adela Reefe? It _is_ like her; and it is like me, too. Oh, what this secret? What is the meaning of it all?" "As well as I can make it out," said Lance, "the meaning is that Adela is a direct descendant of Gertrude Wylde, and a kinswoman of yours. The only thing remaining, in my mind, is to find out whether her father or his family came from Croatan. If that is proved--" "And if that is proved, what then?" "I know of nothing to follow, except that we should recognize her as a relative." "Never!" cried Jessie. "This is a mere dream. It's impossible to prove her descent from our stock. I can have nothing to do with her."