’She used to be Aunt Margaret’s attendant, and now she is Etta’s maid,—­at least, we call her so,—­but she makes herself useful in many ways.  She is rather a superior person, and well educated, but I like Chatty to wait on me best; she is such a simple, honest little soul.  I know people say servants have not much feeling, but I am sure Chatty would do anything for me and Lady Betty.’

‘And you think Leah would not?’ I asked, rather stupidly.

‘I did not say so, did I?’ she answered quickly.  ’We always look upon Leah as Etta’s servant.  She was devoted to her old mistress, and of course that makes Etta care for her so much.  To me she is not a pleasant person.  Etta has spoiled her, and she gives herself airs, and takes too much upon herself.  Do you know’—­with an amused smile—­’Lady Betty and I think that Etta is rather afraid of her?  She never ventures to find fault with her, and once or twice Lady Betty has heard Leah scolding Etta when something has put her out.  I should not care to be scolded by my maid:  should you, Miss Garston?’

‘No,’ I returned, rather absently, for, unperceived by Miss Hamilton, my attention was arrested by the photograph.  It was the portrait of a young man, and something in the face seemed familiar to me.

The next moment I was caught.  A distressed look crossed Miss Hamilton’s face, and she made a sudden movement, as though she would close the photograph; but on second thoughts she handed it to me.

’Should you like to see it more closely?  It is a photograph of my twin-brother, Eric.  They think—­yes, they are afraid that he is dead.’

Her lips had turned quite white as she spoke, and in my surprise, for I never knew there had been another brother, I did not answer, but only bent over the picture.

It was the face of a young man about nineteen or twenty,—­a beautiful face, that strangely resembled his sister’s; the large blue-gray eyes were like hers, but the fair budding moustache scarcely hid the weak, irresolute mouth.  Here the resemblance stopped, for Miss Hamilton’s firm lips and finely-curved chin showed no lack of power; but in her brother’s face—­attractive as it was—­there were clearly signs of vacillation.

‘Well, what do you think of it?’ she asked, with a quick catch of her breath.

‘It is a beautiful face,’ I returned, rather hesitating.  ’Very striking, too.  One could not easily forget it; and it is strangely like you:  but—­’

’Yes, I know,’—­taking it out of my hand and closing the carved panels,—­’but you think it weak.  Oh yes, we cannot all be strong alike.  Our Creator has ordained that, and it is for us to be merciful.  Poor Eric!  He would be three-and-twenty now.  He was just twenty when that was taken.’

‘And he is dead?’

’They say so.  They think he is drowned; but we have no real proof, and we cannot be sure of it.  He is alive in my dreams.  That is the best of not really knowing,’ she went on, in a sad voice:  ’one can go on praying for him, for, perhaps, after all, he may one day come back; not from the dead,—­oh no, I do not believe that for a moment; but if he be alive—­’ her eyes dilating and her manner full of excitement.