"Is your name William Standish?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Did you not know my name was Standish?" he added, puzzled by the expression of her face.
She shook her head in denial. "Was it a child gave you this picture?"
"Yes," he replied, monosyllabic in his surprise.
"To her foolish, lonely fancy was it the portrait of her mother, who had died in giving her birth?"
"That is true," he replied. Then he added earnestly, "Do you know anything of that child? Can you tell me anything about her? I have tried to find her. I have made many efforts to do so, but in vain. I have lost all clew to her."
"Was her name Meg?" she asked.
"Yes, her name was Meg—dear little Meg!" he said, his eyes shining softly, as if he were seeing before him an image that delighted him.
"I am, or rather I was little Meg," she said in a low voice.
"You?" he exclaimed, looking at her.