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down the stairs with them. Kate was drowsing before the low driftwood fire. She opened her eyes as Beth entered. “You took your time,” she grumbled. “I could do with some of your tea; my feet are like death.”
     
    “Where is Carrie?” asked Beth.
     
    “In the kitchen. Stuffing herself, as usual, the sly fox. I heard the cupboards opening.”
     
    Beth sat down and absently brushed dust from her skirts and hands. “The kettle’s hot,” suggested Kate impatiently. Beth continued to dust herself.
     
    “You never told me,” she murmured. “Did he have any brothers?”
     
    “ Him ? Nary a one I ever heard of. Why?”
     
    “I just wondered. Didn’t you say he was from Boston?”
     
    “That’s what I heard, from Ann. Born in Boston. Dear me, are you never going to stop being curious about him? What’s he to you?”
     
    “After all!” said Beth, looking up. “It’s natural to be curious about people! Am I a dead stick?” She paused while Kate peered at her humorously. “Never mind. Did you ever hear of a place called Genesee, New York State?”
     
    “How you change subjects! No, I never did. Did your husband come from there?”
     
    “I don’t know,” said Beth vaguely. “It just floated into my mind — Genesee. Did you ever see his father, Kate?”
     
    “No, for goodness’ sake! Heard his parents died when he was almost a baby.”
     
    Beth thought, 1839. She shook her head, baffled, then took the tea can from the mantelpiece. She stood with it in her hands and looked about her at the dreary walls with their peeling wallpaper. There were no pictures in this house. She thought of the portrait in its trunk, immured in the attic, and shivered again.
     
    “Have you got a chill?” asked Kate in her sharp voice.
     
    The man stood in the middle of the beautiful drawing room of the house on Beacon Street. The room was long but narrow, for the house itself was that shape, and of rosy brick with gleaming white shutters and a door of polished wood with a fine old fanlight above it. It was the first of October, but chilly, and a fire burned briskly in a white marble fireplace of Italian origin and excellently carved. The tall windows at each end of the room, framed by French draperies of blue and rose and gold brocade, let in the mellow sunshine of autumn. One window looked out at the brick-paved street with its opposite houses equally as well built and handsome as this; the other window showed a small garden. The golden leaves of an elm tree brushed the grass; each leaf was plated with gilt sunshine.
     
    An Aubusson carpet covered the floor of the room in shades of gray, dim blue, muted yellow, and pale scarlet. These shades were repeated in the French chairs and sofas scattered about the room; little fragile tables with silver or glass lamps stood about, holding exquisite boxes of Florentine origin, or tiny ivory statuettes, or English dancing figures in swirls of porcelain lace, or small vases of flowers. The walls had been painted a soft ivory, and the high ceiling was ivory also, with moldings of gold. A great portrait of two young blond girls, dressed in identical dresses of blue velvet, hung over the mantelpiece.
     
    The smoky eyes, set in faces like blush roses, smiled down at the man. It was impossible to discern any difference in the features of the girls, and it was apparent they were twins. Pearl necklaces curved about their long white throats, and pearls were fastened in their ears. Their lovely hair was parted in the center and then allowed to fall in cascades of curls about their dainty shoulders. One girl sat, the other leaned, standing, behind her.
     
    The room had a rich odor of spice, burning wood, and flowery perfume. An occasional carriage rumbled on the bricks outside; the mellow light, almost tawny, brightened through the polished windows. It sprang back in colored light from the huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
     
    The man frowned. A door near the