Kilmeny of the Orchard 
     
    
   
   
    
     mantel-piece, in a ruddy glow of sunset 
     
     light striking through the window, hung 
     
     one which caught and held Eric’s atten- 
     
     tion to the exclusion of everything else. 
     
     It was the enlarged “ crayon ” photo- 
     
     graph of a young girl, and, in spite of the 
     
     crudity of execution, it was easily the 
     
     centre of interest in the room. 
     
    

    
     Eric at once guessed that this must be 
     
     the picture of Margaret Gordon, for, al- 
     
     though quite unlike Kilmeny’s sensitive, 
     
     spirited face in general, there was a 
     
     subtle, unmistakable resemblance about 
     
     brow and chin. 
     
    

    
     The pictured face was a very handsome 
     
     one, suggestive of velvety dark eyes and 
     
     vivid colouring; but it was its expression 
     
     rather than its beauty which fascinated 
     
     Eric. Never had he seen a countenance 
     
     indicative of more intense and stubborn 
     
     will power. Margaret Gordon was dead 
     
     and buried; the picture was a cheap and 
     
     inartistic production in an impossible 
     
    
   
   
    
     frame of gilt and plush; yet the vitality 
     
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