A faint flush flitted over the girl’s face, as Julius stepped forward and took her hand.
“How do, Cousin Jane?” he said lightly.
But Tommy caught the tremor in his voice.
“Are you really Uncle Hiram’s son?” she asked wonderingly.
Her voice, with the slight warmth of the Western accent, had an almost thrilling quality. It seemed vaguely familiar to Tommy, but he thrust the impression aside as impossible.
“Sure thing.”
“We used to read about Uncle Hiram in the papers,” continued the girl, in her low soft tones. “But I never thought I’d meet you one day. Mother figured it out that Uncle Hiram would never get over being mad with her.”
“The old man was like that,” admitted Julius. “But I guess the new generation’s sort of different. Got no use for the family feud business. First thing I thought about, soon as the war was over, was to come along and hunt you up.”
A shadow passed over the girl’s face.
“They’ve been telling me things—dreadful things—that my memory went, and that there are years I shall never know about—years lost out of my life.”