“My mother.”
He hesitated; then he asked: “Is it a—good picture of her?”
“Oh, yes. It was taken before I was born. But it was very like her.”
The man wetted his lips with his tongue. “Who was your father?” he asked.
“His name was Michael Lytton.”
“What was he like?”
The girl shook her head. “I never knew him.”
His head bowed over the locket. When he looked up again it was to ask: “Where have you lived? What was your life? Will you tell me?”
She nodded. “We—had a strange life,” she said. “Ever since I was a little girl, we have lived among the islanders. My mother was a missionary; she knew how to make sick people well, and they loved her. We stayed with them always; but she always told me that when she died, I must go home.”
“Home?” he asked. “Where did she say your home was?”