“I admire her for it,” said Mrs. Crawford.
“I should doubt her fervent love if it could be transferred so easily from poverty to wealth. Yes, I am proud of my dear daughter whom I have not seen in fifteen years. But the whole story is marvellous.”
“And yet there is nothing impossible about it. We can see how simply it all happened.”
“What is she like?”
“Mrs. Barrington was quite puzzled about a resemblance to some one, and she thinks it you. She has not the radiant beauty of your girlhood, neither has she the dazzling charm of Zay. Oh, I think she is the most like Willard; rather too grand for a girl of sixteen, with a great deal of dignity. Oh, you should hear Mrs. Barrington talk about her. And how do you suppose she and the doctor kept the secret yesterday! They knew it would disturb our happy Christmas. And she was nursing the sick woman.”
“Oh, did she know?”
“Not that she was our daughter until this morning. I felt bewildered over it all,” and Major Crawford gave a deep drawn sigh.
His wife pressed his hand. Her tears were flowing silently.
“Well—it will be very strange to have her here,” remarked Miss Crawford. “But I warn you, Zay will always be the dearest to me.”
Twilight was falling around them. Mrs. Crawford would never have her own lights early. This was her favorite hour with her husband. Aunt Kate stole softly to Zay’s room and found her sleeping tranquilly, the fever mostly gone.