A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. " "I remember now!" interrupted McClintock. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. " "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. " "What do you want me to do?" The doctor thought this query gave hopeful promise.
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