"Oh, we've known each other for ages," said Mabel warmly. "Cyrus is just like my elder brother. I am so glad to meet you. Cyrus told me--well, I daren't tell you what he told me, it would make him blush." "I have not blushed since I was a baby," I retorted. "Gertrude, Lady Mabel is stopping at Tarhaven with her brother and----" "Don't call me _Lady_ Mabel. It's very rude. Miss Monk, why don't you keep him in better order?" "Don't call me Miss Monk," said Gertrude, smiling. "I know you quite well from what Cyrus has told me, and, indeed, Mr. Weston." "Oh, Dicky," Mabel blushed, "he's such a silly man, Miss--well then, Gertrude." "Hurrah, Gertrude! you are received into the family circle," said I. "Not until she meets Cannington," said Mabel, rising. "What a lovely, lovely room you have, Gertrude," she moved from one point to another; "it's as lovely as--you are." "What a nice speech, Mabel." "Yes, isn't it? I always make nice speeches, and--and--oh!" she stopped short. "What's the matter?" asked Gertrude, seeing that her visitor was staring at a photograph in a silver frame, "that is my father." "Your father," repeated Mabel, and my blood ran chill, for I guessed what was coming. "Why, it's a photograph of Mr. Wentworth Marr, who wished to marry me." CHAPTER XVIII AN ALARMING MESSAGE I sat and shivered in my brown shoes. In bringing Lady Mabel to The Lodge I had quite overlooked the possibility that she might espy the photograph of Monk which stood always, as I very well knew, on the piano in the drawing-room, and the worst of it was that the photograph had only been taken a few months, so there was no possibility of mistaking the face. It was certain that Mabel would appeal to me for confirmation of her assertion, since I had met Marr in her presence, so what could I do? While the two girls stared alternatively at one another and at the photograph, I tried to make up my mind what course it would be best to pursue. "I think you must be mistaken," said Gertrude, who looked puzzled, "the photograph is certainly one that my father had taken early this year." "Then your father is Wentworth Marr," insisted Mabel, examining the photograph more closely. "Walter Monk is my father's name," said Gertrude with some stiffness, "there is no need for him to change it." Mabel looked round at me, and I shivered again. The heavens were falling. "I ask you, Cyrus," she cried imperatively, "isn't this," she touched the photograph, "Mr. Marr." "There is a likeness," I admitted cautiously. "Nonsense! it's Mr. Marr himself. You met him at Aunt Lucy's. You must know." "Know what?" I asked doggedly and uneasily. "That this," she touched the photograph again, "is Mr. Marr."