"I do not understand you, sir," said Flower, in a sweet, timid voice, and he answered, quietly: "Perhaps not, but I will soon explain to you. Still, this may not be a proper place to begin my story. There is my card. Will you permit me, an old man, and the friend of yourself and your kindred, to call upon you at your home?" She looked at the bit of pasteboard, and read the name, scrawled in a bold hand: "WILLIAM R. KELSO, "London, England." Lifting her sad eyes to his face, she said: "Mr. Kelso, I am staying at the Springville Hotel. I have no home. I was driven from Mrs. Fielding's house, after she was sent to the asylum, by the cruelty of my half-sister. I am indebted to the kindness of a poor colored woman for the means that enabled me to reach this place. I must now seek work that I may have the means of prolonging my miserable existence." Something like a smile crossed the man's lips at her concluding words, and a grieved look came into her eyes. Why should he smile at her sorrows, she wondered. "I beg your pardon for smiling. I know you think me unfeeling," he said. "But you will understand me better when you have heard the good news I have to tell you." She looked at him with a startled face, and murmured piteously, as she clasped her little hands together: "Good news, you say! Ah, if you have anything like that to tell me, do not wait! Let me hear it now! But, alas! what good fortune could come to me?" despondently, for the quick thought of Laurie Meredith was turned aside by the remembrance that he was dead. Mr. Kelso seated himself on the rustic bench beside her, and said, earnestly: "What if I should tell you that I came recently from England to seek Daisy Forrest and her descendants?" The quivering red lips parted in wonder, but Flower did not speak, and he continued: "I suppose you have never heard that your maternal grandfather was English?" Her lips quivered painfully as she answered: "No, I know nothing, except that my birth was my mother's shame, and the cause of her death." "Poor soul!" sighed William Kelso, compassionately, then he added: "Yes, he was the younger son of a noble English family. His eldest brother was heir to the title and estates, the second brother was in the army, and John Forrest, the third and last, was designed for the church. He was young and wild, and revolted against the restraints of a clerical life, and ran away to America." Flower sat up, listening eagerly. This began to sound like one of her favorite novels. Smiling sympathetically at the lovely, startled face, Mr. Kelso continued: "Lord Ivon was both stern and proud. He vowed he would never forgive his disobedient, runaway son. When letters came from him they were laid aside unread, and poor John's fate remained a mystery to his kindred. His mother pined, but her stern husband forbid her ever to think of the truant again." "He was cruel!" Flower murmured, indignantly.