"I cannot account for it, Monsieur Georges," said Mary; "but from the first moment I saw you, your face seemed to me like one I had known, though altered by time, in some far away days of childhood; and yet it cannot be, for I am not a native of France."
"They say," he replied, "that not two persons in the world resemble one another; yet there are likenesses so strong, you may have seen some one like me. The impressions of childhood, on thoughtful minds, come across us, like dreams in after years."
"Oh!" she answered, "it is not alone your face and figure, but something in the tone of your voice is, and was from the first, most familiar, though dreamy."
She gazed earnestly, as she spoke, at the dignified, though bent figure of the old man, as he sat beside the stove, where the light of the lamp fell on his venerable head and silvered hair.
"There is something," he said, "I have intended asking, when our poor invalid should be better. I do not want to pry into, perhaps painful family secrets, for few are exempt from these," he sighed deeply; "but there can be no indiscretion in my inquiring, I hope, whether the name of 'Tremenhere,' which she uttered so frequently in her ravings, is one of family connection, or merely of acquaintanceship."
"Tremenhere!" exclaimed Minnie, and the truth hung on her lip, yet something of fear of betrayal withheld her from uttering it. "Do you know the name?" she inquired, changing her original thought, and supporting herself on her arm, she looked anxiously at him.
"I did," he answered, "long ago."
"Where?" asked Mary, fixing a surprised look on his face.
"Far from hence," he replied. "Abroad, and in England."
"For mercy's sake!" exclaimed Minnie, "tell me, my good father (for such indeed you have been to me,) what Tremenhere did you know—the name is so uncommon?"