She was not fated to remain long in ignorance of the resemblance that haunted her so strangely. She was standing on the shore one day looking dreamily out at the swelling, foam-capped waves, as they rolled in and broke in crystal spray at her feet, when she was startled by little Trixy's voice, crying vivaciously: "Oh, Laurie, here comes mamma! Now she can see _your_ mamma, Laurie!" Mrs. Lynn turned toward the children, and saw a fair, blue eyed woman coming up to them. She gazed in silence a moment, then gave a great strangling gasp of surprise and recognition. It was Beatrix Wentworth! The past rushed bleakly over Laurel's memory; the past, with all its love and sorrow and shame. The sight of this fair woman brought it all back freshly and with terrible realism. She stood like one turned to stone, as Mrs. Wentworth came up to her, a look of startled wonder on her lovely blonde face. "Laurel Vane!" she cried, and put out both her hands. Laurel drew back coldly, all her self-possession returning. "You have made a mistake," she said; "I am Mrs. Lynn!" Mrs. Wentworth colored deeply. "I beg your pardon--you are right," she said. "I was so startled by your likeness to my friend that I forgot for the moment that she by whose name I called you is long since numbered with the dead!" "I regret to have awakened unpleasant emotions in your mind," said Laurel, gently, as she offered her card to Mrs. Wentworth. "You are little Trixy's mother," she went on, smiling. "I am very glad to know you for her sake. She and my little son are great friends." "You have a son?" said Mrs. Wentworth, as she exchanged cards with Laurel. She sighed heavily, and then Laurel noticed that she wore a black dress. "Ah, I had a son, too, Mrs. Lynn, a beautiful boy that would be as old now as yours had he lived, but he lies buried in an English graveyard." "You are English?" asked Laurel, gently, her heart melting in sympathy with the tear that sparkled down Beatrix's cheek. "No, I am American, but I have lived in England ever since my marriage, nine years ago. Little Trixy was born in London, as also my little Cyril, dead three years ago. We have come home now to live." "We?" said Mrs. Lynn, with a slight, interrogative accent on the pronoun. "I should have said Mr. Wentworth and myself, and Trixy. There are only three of us," explained Beatrix, pensively, and smothering a sigh.