Grandmamma and Aunt Genevieve sat in the hall.
"Have you had a pleasant time?" Mrs. Whittredge asked.
"A beautiful time, grandmamma. I do like to know people. And Miss Betty—I mean Cousin Betty—told us about the lost ring and—was she my aunt?—Patricia? Did you ever see her, grandmamma?"
"Yes, a number of times. She visited at our house when I was a child. She died a few years after my marriage. Your Aunt Genevieve is thought to resemble the miniature done of her in her girlhood."
Rosalind looked in the direction of the arm-chair where her aunt half reclined, her eyes on a book, her clear profile in relief against the dark leather, the mellow lamp-light bringing out the copper tints in her hair. "Then I know she must have been lovely," she said.
Mrs. Whittredge laughed, and Genevieve lifted her eyes to ask, "What is that?"
"Rosalind is sure Patricia Gilpin must have been handsome if you resemble her," her mother replied.
Genevieve shrugged her shoulders, and her lips curled a little, although she smiled; "Thank you, Rosalind," she said.
"I don't believe," thought Rosalind, as she slowly prepared for bed, "that Miss Patricia—Aunt Patricia—looked as if she didn't care about anything. She bore hard things bravely, Miss Betty said, and I believe people who do that have a kind look." Here her glance fell upon the miniature on her dressing-table. The sweet eyes smiled on her. Taking it up she pressed it to her lips; "Like you, my dear beautiful," she whispered.