He opened the case and showed her a small round portrait painted on ivory. It was the head of a girl of eighteen, exquisitely fair, with sweet, modest-looking eyes. “Your mother,” he said briefly.
Anna almost held her breath. She had never seen a picture of her mother before, and had very seldom heard her mentioned.
“How lovely!” she exclaimed. “May I really have it to keep?”
“I had it copied for you from the original,” said Mr Forrest.
“Oh, father, thank you so much,” said Anna earnestly. “I do so love to have it.”
Mr Forrest turned away suddenly, and walked to the window. He was silent for some minutes, and Anna stood with the case in her hand, not daring to speak to him. She had an instinct that it was a painful subject.
“Well,” he said at last, “I need not tell you to take care of it. When I come back you’ll be nearly as old as she was when that was painted. I can’t hope more than that you may be half as good and beautiful.”
Anna gazed earnestly at the portrait. There were some words in tiny letters beneath it: “Priscilla Goodwin,” she read, “aged eighteen.”
Priscilla! A soft, gentle sort of name, which seemed to suit the face.
If father wanted me to look like this, she thought to herself, he shouldn’t have called me “Anna.” How could any one named Anna grow so pretty!