"She will be delighted—though, you know, of course, she will not be allowed to wear it in the convent."
"Ah, she is in a convent!" he exclaimed. "But in any case, let her keep it as a reminder of me."
I thought as I watched him that if Winifred so closely resembled her dead mother, she was also like her father. His face was as mobile and expressive as hers, allowing always for the mask which the years are sure to put over every human countenance.
"You fancy there is a resemblance in this girl to your dead wife?"
"I know there is a resemblance to Winifred's dead mother," he answered.
I was silent though I had little reason for concealment henceforth.
"How cruel you have been all this time," he exclaimed, as he watched me; "I think it comes natural to your sex."
"Don't revile our sex for the faults of your own," I answered. "But tell me more about your dead wife."
His face changed and softened. Then a look came over it—a look of tender remembrance, which did him credit.
"She was very beautiful," he began, "at least I thought so. I met her when she was only fifteen. She was the image of what Winifred is now, only her beauty was more pronounced, and she had a haughtier air. I never forgot her from that moment. When she was eighteen, we were married. She was only twenty-four when she died, but I remember her still as vividly—"