“They say I'm like my mother's picture,” said she, unfastening a locket she wore from its chain and handing it. And both Peter and his sister gazed eagerly at the miniature. It was of a very dark but handsome woman in a rich turban, and who, though profusely ornamented with costly gems, did, in reality, present a resemblance to the cloistered figure before them.
“Am I like her?” asked the girl, with a shade more of earnestness in her voice.
“You are, darling; but like your father, too, and every word you utter brings back his memory; and see, Dinah, if that is n't George's old trick,—to lay one hand in the palm of the other.”
As if corrected, the young girl dropped her arms to her sides and stood like a statue.
“Be like him in everything, dearest child,” said the old man, “if you would have my heart all your own.”
“I must be what I am,” said she, solemnly.
“Just so, Josephine; well said, my good girl. Be natural,” said Miss Dinah, kissing her, “and our love will never fail you.”
There was the faintest little smile of acknowledgment to this speech; but faint as it was, it dimpled her cheek, and seemed to have left a pleasant expression on her face, for old Peter gazed on her with increased delight as he said, “That was George's own smile; just the way he used to look, half grave, half merry. Oh, how you bring him back tome!”
“You see, my dear child, that you are one of us; let us hope you will share in the happiness this gives us.”
The girl listened attentively to Miss Dinah's words, and after a pause of apparent thought over them, said, “I will hope so.”