is already faded, and was taken evidently at an age when the marks of a man's character, whatever it may be, are still held in abeyance by the youth of his face. Here are no lines of race, no marks of profession. Five years may have changed his face completely. He may have worked, he may have idled. He may wear a mustache, he may be dead. Have you no idea what his name was?"
"No."
"But he must have had a name that you called him by?"
"Would that matter?" she asked. "I—I gave him that name."
"Then it doesn't matter what it was," said Judge Tyler, hastily. He glanced at the photograph again. "He looks like a gentleman."
"He was," said the lady, in a tone implying that she expected contradiction.
Judge Tyler started to return the photograph, but his judicial habit of cross-questioning even inanimate objects caused him first to turn it over and examine the back. The cardboard was yel-
