"I am the brother of Mrs. Monfort, once Constance Glen—now, as you tell me, no more. What children did she leave?"
"One only—a daughter," was Evelyn's reply. "Not visible to-day, however, since she was severely burned a few days since, and is still confined to her bed; not dangerously ill, though."
"I passed on then, as quickly as I could," said Evelyn, "for I saw no end to questioning, and had an appointment to keep. I said, however, civilly, 'Suppose you call another time, when papa is disengaged. To-day he could not possibly receive you,' pausing on the steps for a reply. This was of course all that was required of me, but he merely lifted his hat with a cool 'Thank you, Miss Monfort,' and went his way silently. He evidently mistook me for you, Miriam, and I did not undeceive him. My greatest oversight was in forgetting to ask for his card; but his name was Glen, of course, as hers was, so it would have been a mere form."
"The whole transaction seems to have been inconsiderate on your part, Evelyn," I remarked, as mildly as I could. "Mamma's brother! Oh, what would I not have given to have seen him! Did he never return, and where is he now?"
"No, never that I know of, and he has disappeared. He walked by here a few days later, Franklin says, when he was standing at the door with papa's tilbury, still very poorly dressed, but neither stopped nor spoke. You could not have seen him in your condition, at any rate, Miriam, so you need not look so vexed; and I had no idea of having papa annoyed so soon after his severe attack. Besides, I want no such claims established over Mabel. She is ours, and need desire no other relations. The next thing would have been an application for money, or board and lodging, or some such thing, no doubt."
"How old did he seem to be, Evelyn?" I asked, conquering a qualm of feeling at these words, and inexpressibly interested in her relation.
"I'm sure I can't tell, Miriam; about twenty-five or six, I suppose; the usual age of all such bores. You know mamma was seven or eight and twenty when she died, and she said he was much younger than herself, you may remember."
"Oh, yes, I recollect perfectly. Did he resemble mamma, Evelyn? Was he tall or short, fair or dark? Had he her lovely eyes? Do tell me about him."
"None of these things. A sort of medium man; not at all like mamma, however, as far as I could see on such brief scrutiny, and as well as I remember; with fine eyes, however. Not as good-looking as Claude Bainrothe, by any means. Commonplace, very, with a seedy coat. By-the-way, Miriam, he will be back next week, I believe, and then you will see this phenomenon. You know Mr. Bainrothe and papa design you for one another."
"Papa, indeed! I suppose you mean Claude Bainrothe," and I laughed disdainfully, I fear. "Nay, it is you rather, Evelyn, who have captivated this piece of perfection, as far as I can learn. At least, this is the report that—" I hesitated—colored.