The voices of Turner and the curate reached me from the next room. They were conversing in a low tone, but I could hear that the stricken man was shaking off the apathy of his grief. There was interest and depth in his tone. As they talked, the door, which had been but half on the latch, swung open a little, and I heard him say,
“It is a strange and touching history. Have you made any effort to learn how she came in this forlorn condition?”
“Every effort that a human being could make.”
“And you have literally no information beyond the morning when you took her from the door-step?”
“None whatever.”
“Cannot she herself remember enough to give some clue?”
“Illness must have driven everything from her memory. The mere effort to recollect seems to shake her very existence. I will never attempt it again.”
“She must be of good birth,” said the curate, thoughtfully, “never did human face give more beautiful evidence of gentle blood.”
“I never doubted that,” answered Turner, quickly.
“Strange, very strange,” murmured the curate.