"She thought I was her mother, Florence, the poor little girl; there, there, dear, don't cry. She was only half awake and she says I look like her mother's picture."
"You do, you look just like the picture," sobbed Marian.
"What picture?" asked the man; "this child is the image of brother. What picture, I say?"
"Oh, she means mamma's miniature," said Florence.
"I don't mean the miniature," Marian interrupted, "I mean my own mother's picture," and the child, kneeling before her small trunk quickly found the photograph of her father and mother. "There! doesn't she look like my mother?"
There was a moment of breathless silence as Florence Weston's father and mother gazed at the small card. The woman was the first to speak.
"Why, Richard Lee!" she exclaimed. "That must be a photograph of you!"
"It is," was the reply, "it is a picture of me and of my dead wife, but the baby died too."
"Well, I didn't die," cried Marian. "I was two months old when my father went away, and when my mother died, the folks wrote to the place where my father was the last time they knew anything about him, and I s'pose they told him I was dead, but I wasn't, and that's my mother. Uncle George knows it——"