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By and by we breakfasted. After which, my precious horse not having finished his corn, I spread my blanket and let myself doze, but was soon awakened by the shouts of my companions laughing at me for laughing so piteously in my sleep.

"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

"Look!" he said, and gave the glance and smile of the lady in the curtained wagon so perfectly that I cackled like a small boy. "Oh, you know that, do you? I dare you to say she didn't bring it!"

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

The flap fell again and my panic was turned into a joy qualified only by a reduced esteem for my general as a judge of character.

"I--I believe it yet! You are Charlotte Oliver!"

When I said I would try she looked distressfully unassured and I added "I'll do whatever risks no life but mine."

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