Dinner being over, Madam Conway and Maggie returned to the parlor, where, while the former resumed her chair, the latter amused herself by examining the books and odd-looking daguerreotypes which lay upon the table.
"Oh, grandmother!" she almost screamed, bounding to that lady's side, "as I live, here's a picture of Theo and George Douglas taken together," and she held up a handsome casing before the astonished old lady, who, donning her golden spectacles in a twinkling, saw for herself that what Maggie said was true.
"They stole it!" she gasped. "We are in a den of thieves! Who knows what they'll take from my bandbox?" and she was about to leave the room when Maggie, whose quick mind saw farther ahead, bade her stop.
"I may discover something more," said she, and taking up a handsomely bound volume of Lamb, she turned to the fly-leaf, and read, "Jenny Douglas, from her brother George, Worcester, January 8."
It was plain to her now; but any mortification she might otherwise have experienced was lost in the one absorbing thought, "What will grandma say?"
"Grandmother," said she, showing the book, "don't you remember the mother of that girl called her Betsy Jane Douglas?"
"Yes, yes!" gasped Madam Conway, raising both hands, while an expression of deep, intense anxiety was visible upon her face.
"And don't you know, too," continued Maggie, "that George always seemed inclined to say as little as possible of his parents? Now, in this country it is not unusual for the sons of just such people as these to be among the most wealthy and respectable citizens."
"Maggie, Maggie!" hoarsely whispered Madam Conway, grasping Maggie's arm, "do you mean to insinuate—am I to understand that you believe that odious woman and hideous girl to be the mother and sister of George Douglas?"
"I haven't a doubt of it," answered Maggie. "'Twas the resemblance between Betsy Jane and George which I observed at first."