“No, I do not know that he intended me to see it, but it was lying on the table that evening; I took it up and looked at it, but he did not seem to want to talk about it. I have never seen it since, and he told me that until that evening, he had not seen it for a long time.”
“And did you recognize it as the face of your dreams?”
“Not then; it seemed familiar, but it was not until after I reached home that I remembered my dream, and from that time, the dream returned. I see the face often now, and it is just like the picture, only possibly a little older and sweeter.”
“And you have never spoken to Jack about the picture since?”
“No, for I have not seen it, and he has never alluded to it. He admitted that evening it was the picture of some one he had loved dearly, and I have since thought perhaps he would rather I had not seen it.”
Miss Gladden was silent; her old theory regarding Jack’s being the father of Lyle, seemed to her now more probable than ever. She believed the picture to be that of Lyle’s own mother, who, it seemed evident, had lived long enough that her child remembered her in her dreams, though unable to recall her face at other times.
Very tenderly she bade Lyle good-night, determined that her next call at the little cabin should be made as early as possible.