“I assure you, positively, it is not mine.”
“That is quite enough; let us talk of something else. By the way, I have a letter to show you. I put it in my pocket this morning, to let you see it; but, first of all, I must show you the writer,—here she is.” He drew forth a small miniature case, and, opening it, handed it to the other.
“What a handsome girl! downright beautiful!”
“My granddaughter, sir,” said the old man, proudly.
“I declare, I never saw a lovelier face,” said Haire. “She must be a rare cheat if she be not as good as she is beautiful. What a sweet mouth!”
“The brow is fine; there is a high intelligence about the eyes and the temples.”
“It is the smile, that little lurking smile, that captivates me. What may her age be?”
“Something close on twenty. Now for her letter. Read that.”
While Haire perused the letter, the old Judge sauntered away, looking from time to time at the miniature, and muttering some low inaudible words as he went.
“I don't think I understand it. I am at a loss to catch what she is drifting at,” said Haire, as he finished the first side of the letter. “What is she so grateful for?”