“In the hospital—your father wore it then. If I am not mistaken, the locket contains a portrait.”
“I have never been photographed,” she said, evidently believing that no portrait save of herself could be so honoured. “It is not—a portrait—of Roderick?”
“Look and see for yourself,” suggested Hugh.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the locket, then she stared in amazement at the miniature.
“I have never seen that person in my life!” she cried. “Have you? Did he tell you anything about it? Oh, it is impossible, impossible!”
She was roused, almost excited. She tossed the locket away from her, then clutched at it again and devoured the portrait with her eyes.
“Surely the face must recall some one to your mind—there must be some—family—likeness?” he suggested, gravely.
“I never saw any one in the least like that!” she said, with withering contempt. “It is a horrid face!”
Could she speak thus if the slightest suspicion that the portrait was that of her unhappy mother had crossed her mind? Hugh thought not.
“You once—had—a mother,” he said, not without emotion that he, a stranger, should be called upon to remind this fatherless young creature of the fact.