e
great black hat, beautiful and unhurt in spite of its journey to Chicago.
The day was saved, and also the reputation of his mother's maid. But was
there no word from the beautiful stranger? He searched hurriedly through
the wrappings, pulled out the hat quite unceremoniously, and turned the
box upside down, but nothing else could he find. Then he went at the
suit-case. Yes, there was the rain-coat. He took it out triumphantly, for
now his mother could say nothing, and, moreover, was not his trust in the
fair stranger justified? He had done well to believe in her. He began to
take out the other garments, curious to see what had been there for her
use.

A long, golden brown hair nestling on the collar of the bathrobe gleamed
in a chance ray of sunlight. He looked at it reverently, and laid the
garment down carefully, that it might not be disturbed. As he lifted the
coat, he saw the little note pinned to the lapel, and seized it eagerly.
Surely this would tell him something!

But no, there was only the message that she had arrived safely, and her
thanks. Stay, she had signed her name "Mary." She had told him he might
call her that. Could it be that it was her real name, and that she had
meant to trust him with so much of her true story?

He pondered the delicate writing of the note, thinking how like her it
seemed, then he put the note in an inner pocket and thoughtfully lifted
out the evening clothes. It was then that he touched the silken lined
cloth of her dress, and he drew back almost as if he had ventured roughly
upon something sacred. Startled, awed, he looked upon it, and then with
gentle fingers lifted it and laid it upon his knee. Her dress! The one she
had worn to the dinner with him! What did it all mean? Why was it here,
and where was she?

He spread it out across his lap and looked at it almost as if it hid her
presence. He touched with curious, wistful fingers the lace and delicate
garniture about the waist, as if he would appeal to it to tell the story
of her who