Then she led the way to the library， pulled aside the books， fitted the key to the little door， and opened it. Inside lay a single envelope， sealed and bearing her name. She took the envelope， and walking to her father's chair beside his library table， sat down in it， and laying the envelope on the table， crossed her hands on top of it.
"John，" she said， "ever since I have been big enough to think and reason and study things out for myself， there is a feeling I have had--I used to think it was unreasonable， then I thought it remote possibility. This minute I think it's extremely probable.
Before I open this envelope I am going to tell you what I believe it contains. I have not the slightest evidence except personal conviction， but I believe that the paper inside this envelope is written by my father's hand and I believe it tells me that he was not Eileen's father and that I am not her sister. If it does not say this， then there is nothing in race and blood and inherited tendencies."Linda picked up the paper cutter， ran it across the envelope， slipped out the sheet， and bracing herself she read：
MY DARLING LINDA：
These lines are to tell you that your mother went to her eternal sleep when you were born. Four years later I met and fell in love with the only mother you ever have known. At the time of our marriage we entered into a solemn compact that her little daughter by a former marriage and mine should be reared as sisters. I was to give half my earnings and to do for Eileen exactly as I did for you. She was to give half her love and her best attention to your interests.
I sincerely hope that what I have done will not result in any discomfort or inconvenience to you.
With dearest love， as ever your father，ALEXANDER STRONG.
Linda laid the sheet on the table and dropped her hands on top of it. Then she looked at John Gilman.
"John，" she said， "I believe you had better face the fact that the big car and the big people that carried Eileen away today were her mother's wealthy relatives from San Francisco. She must have been in touch with them. I think very likely she sent for them after I saw her in the bank yesterday afternoon， trying with all her might to make the paying teller turn over to her the funds of the private account."John Gilman sat very still for a long time， then he raised tired， disappointed eyes to Linda's face.
"Linda，" he said， "do you mean you think Eileen was not straight about money matters？""John，" said Linda quietly， "I think it is time for the truth about Eileen between you and me. If you want me to answer that question candidly， I'll answer it."ù"I want the truth，" said John Gilman gravely.
"Well，" said Linda， "I never knew Eileen to be honest about anything in all her life unless the truth served her better than an evasion. Her hair was not honest color and it was not honest curl. Her eyebrows were not so dark as she made them. Her cheeks and lips were not so red， her forehead and throat were not so white， her form was not so perfect. Her friends were selected because they could serve her. As long as you were poor and struggling， Marian was welcome to you. When you won a great case and became prosperous and fame came rapidly， Eileen took you. Ibelieve what I told you a minute ago： I think she has gone for good. I think she went because she had not been fair and she would not be forced to face the fact before you and me and the president of the Consolidated today. I think you will have to take your heart home tonight and I think that before the night is over you will realize what Marian felt when she knew that in addition to having been able to take you from her， Eileen was not a woman who would make you happy. I am glad， deeply g]ad， that there is not a drop of her blood in my veins， sorry as I am for you and much as I regret what has happened. I won't ask you to stay tonight， because you must go through the same black waters Marian breasted， and you will want to be alone. Later， if you think of any way I can serve you， I will be glad for old sake's sake； but you must not expect me ever to love you or respect your judgment as I did before the shadow fell."Then Linda rose， replaced the letter， turned the key in the lock， and quietly slipped out of the room.
When she opened her door and stepped into her room she paused in astonishment. Spread out upon the bed lay a dress of georgette with little touches of fur and broad ribbons of satin. In color it was like the flame of seasoned beechwood. Across the foot of the bed hung petticoat， camisole， and hose， and beside the dress a pair of satin slippers exactly matching the hose， and they seemed the right size. Linda tiptoed to the side of the bed and delicately touched the dress， and then she saw a paper lying on the waist front， and picking it up read：
Lambie， here's your birthday， from loving old Katy.
The lines were terse and to the point. Linda laid them down， and picking up the dress she walked to the mirror， and holding it under her chin glanced down the length of its reflection. What she saw almost stunned her.
"Oh， good Lord！" she said. "I can't wear that. That isn't me."Then she tossed the dress on the bed and started in a headlong rush to the kitchen. As she came through the door， "You blessed old darling！" she cried. "What am I going to say to make you know how I appreciate your lovely， lovely gift？"Katy raised her head. There was something that is supposed to be the prerogative of royalty in the lift of it. Her smile was complacent in the extreme.
"Don't ye be standin' there wastin' no time talkie'，" she said.
"I have oodles of time，" said Linda， "but I warn you， you won't know me if I put on that frock， Katy.""Yes， I will， too，" said Katy.
"Katy，" said Linda， sobering suddenly， "would it make any great difference to you if I were the only one here for always， after this？"Katy laughed contemptuously.
"Well， I'd warrant to survive it，" she said coolly.
