"No."

"Indeed. She does not take after you either."

"That's as may be."

Mrs. Brutt was at a loss how to meet this.

"I'm said to be like what mother was," Winnie observed timidly.

"Indeed." The notion was preposterous. Mrs. Brutt turned to a framed photograph. "Ah, this no doubt is Mr. Morris. Such a fine-looking young man! And was it in India that you lost him?"

"That's my uncle."

"You don't say so! Your uncle, Mr. Paine? But I ought to have guessed— quite the young farmer, leggings and all. And now I see—so like Farmer Paine! A perfectly charming old man!"

Mrs. Morris was silent.

"Now here is another, which I am sure must have been a triumph of skill. Do look, Miss Stirling. A painted photo, and really well done. Such a pretty creature—hair and complexion quite bewitching, and the sweetest roguish smile. The sort of face a man would fall in love with on the spot. Not a daughter of your own, Mrs. Morris! Though I see just a look of Winnie. A cousin, perhaps."

"That's me."

Mrs. Brutt looked from the picture to her, from her to the picture.

"Really!" she said. The information came as a shock. "Dear me! Really!" It was all she could bring herself to utter, with the utmost stretch of politeness. "Dear me—how very—how extremely—"

"People alter as they get older," jerked out Mrs. Morris.

Mrs. Brutt made no effort to combat a truth so self-evident; but the present application of it went beyond bounds. She took up a small closed frame of leather, not realising in her confusion that the act might be counted a liberty, and opened it with a—"May I?" Leave did not come, neither did she wait for it.

"Is this—oh, I see!" as again she read "Phil Morris" written below. "Ah, so this is your husband. Poor thing!"—with a sympathy which called forth no gratitude. "A painting, I see,—not a 

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